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