…from the quills of the dead white poets


Percy Bysse Shelley (1792 -1822)


  I met a traveller from 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.



About Avadoro Worden

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