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, / 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment