I met a traveller from an antique land,
He said – two vast and trunkleſs legs of stone
Stand in the desart… near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lips, & 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, & the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, this legend clear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my works ye mighty, & despair!
Nothing remains beside. Round the decay
Of that coloſsal wreck, boundleſs & bare
the lone & level sands, stretch far away.

Shelley's 1817 fair copy