| I met a traveller from an antique land | |
| Who said: Two 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, | 5 |
| 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: | 10 |
| Look upon 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. | |