I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“A temple built on vengeance and stone Waits in the caverns. . . . burning under ash and sand, Half departed a shattered visage lies, whose empty eye, And forgotten smile, and expression of regret, Tell its visitors well that those loved ones left Which yet survive, stamped on this beast of hate, But also the voice that teased them, and the heart that fed; And skulking below her feet, these words are whispered: 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 empty land stretches far away.”


















