Monday poetry

The NaNoWriMo word count is zero; I'm already 1,667 words behind. It's also late, so I cannot give you the proper blog entry you deserve; but as Ms. Austen once said, it's rarely my good fortune to treat people as they deserve. So, on election eve, I have no politics for you, no insight, no predictions, only poetry. Enjoy!

Ozymandias of Egypt

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, stamped on those 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.

-- Percy Bysshe Shelley