 I met a traveller from an antique land, who said, Too vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, half sunk, a shattered visage lies, Whose frown and wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that it sculptor well those passions red 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.