Ozymandias, Percy Bysshe Shelley. I met a traveller from an antique land who said to vast trunks, legs of stone stand in the desert near on the sand.
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies whose frown and wrinkled lips and sneer of cold command tell that its sculptor,
well, those passions red, which yet survive stamped on these lifeless things.
The hand that marks them. And the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear.
My name is Ozymandias, King of kings.
Look on my watch. See my t and nothing besides remains round the decay of that colossal wreck.
Boundless and bare. The lone and level sound stretch far away.