Ozymandias Ever Rising through the Winds of Time
I met a poet from an online site
who said: 'Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
stand in my mind, yet find description quite
inadequate, half sunk beneath time flown.'
I answered: 'He whose sneer rei[g]ned cold command,
his sculptor too, are both to Lethe blown,
his passions mocked by who'd today demand
a résumé for tourists who bemoan
a lack of facts to show their pseudo friends
to back up their vacation time well spent,
and yet, and yet, so similar their ends
whose works turn sand when's finished sojourn lent.'
He came, he ruled, time fooled and conquered him,
trunk packed away museumwards on whim.
In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desert knows.
'I am great Ozymandias, ' saith the stone,
'The King of kings: this mighty city shows
The wonders of my hand.' The city's gone!
Naught but the leg remaining to disclose
The sight of that forgotten Babylon.
We wonder, and some hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when through the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the wolf in chase,
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess
What wonderful, but unrecorded, race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place. I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: A huge four-footed limestone form
Sits in the desert, sinking in the sand.
Its whiskered face, though marred by wind and storm,
Still flaunts the dainty ears, the collar band
And feline traits the sculptor well portrayed:
The bearing of a born aristocrat,
The stubborn will no mortal can dissuade.
And on its base, in long-dead alphabets,
These words are set: 'Reward for missing cat!
His name is Abyssinias, pet of pets;
I, Ozymandias, will a fortune pay
For his return. He heard me speak of vets -
O foolish King! And so he ran away.' I met a traveler 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 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! '
Also the names of Emory P. Gray,
Mr. and Mrs. Dukes, and Oscar Baer
of 17 West 4th Street, Oyster Bay. I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: A huge four-footed limestone form
Sits in the desert, sinking in the sand.
Its whiskered face, though marred by wind and storm,
Still flaunts the dainty ears, the collar band
And feline traits the sculptor well portrayed:
The bearing of a born aristocrat,
The stubborn will no mortal can dissuade.
And on its base, in long-dead alphabets,
These words are set: 'Reward for missing cat!
His name is Abyssinias, pet of pets;
I, Ozymandias, will a fortune pay
For his return. He heard me speak of vets -
O foolish King! And so he ran away.' I met the traveller from an antique shop
Who said, “two vast and trunkless legs, a bust
Of Pompey, and a vase of lead, in dust
And debris lie in my cellar, near a mop.
Few modern sculptors are there who could top
Their beauty, even though they are half rust.”
He raved on, and aroused my simple trust,
Till I at length prevailed on him to stop.
Seized with delight, I bought them all. On one
Deciphered I these words: ‘Made in Hong Kong’.
Little more remained. Decay had come
From having rotted in the cellar long.
Of that colossal bust, begrimed and grey,
All but the plastic base had flaked away. I met a cracksman coming down the Strand,
Who said, ‘A huge Cathedral, piled of stone,
Stands in a churchyard, near St. Martin’s le Grand,
Where keeps Saint Paul his sacerdotal throne.
A street runs by it to the northward. There
For cab and bus is writ ‘No Thoroughare, ’
The Mayor and Councilmen do so command.
And in that street a shop, with many a box,
Upon whose sign, these fateful words I scanned:
‘My name is Chubb, who makes the Patent Locks;
Look on my works, ye burglars, and despair! ’
Here made he pause, like one that sees a blight
Mar all his hopes, and sighed with drooping air,
‘Our game is up, my covies, blow me tight! ’