Sunken Barrenlands

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 shatter'd visage lies, whose frown /And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command /Tell that its sculptor well those passions read /Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, /The hand that mock'd 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 sands stretch far away.