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.”

Like eyes that looked on Wastes —
Incredulous of Ought
But Blank — and steady Wilderness —
Diversified by Night —

Just Infinites of Nought —
As far as it could see —
So looked the face I looked upon —
So looked itself — on Me —

I offered it no Help —
Because the Cause was Mine —
The Misery a Compact
As hopeless — as divine —

Neither — would be absolved —
Neither would be a Queen
Without the Other — Therefore —
We perish — tho' We reign —

Monuments

I stand over the ruins
Watching what was once a city
Come crumbling down
Into the fading dusk

I watch towers fall
And temples collapse
Arches and domes caving in
Roads left cracked and parched
Castles collapsing on themselves
Bridges now broken apart
And the statues all crying
In the inky black rain

I watch as homes and history
Are blown into the wind
Swept up by the falling ashes
A faint memory on the breeze
Coming to rest at last
And settling in with the dust