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I met a traveller from an antique land, |
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Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone |
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Stand in the desart....Near them, on the sand, |
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Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, |
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And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, |
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Tell that its sculptor well those passions read |
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Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, |
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The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; |
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And on the pedestal, these words appear: |
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My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
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Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! |
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Nothing beside remains. Round the decay |
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Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare |
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The lone and level sands stretch far away." |