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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

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 besides remains round the decay of that colossal wreck

Boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away…