I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of
stone
Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose
frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions
read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless
things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that
fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
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