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 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:
SWeet warriour when shall I haue peace with you?
High time it is, this warre now ended were:
which I no lenger can endure to sue,
ne your incessant battry more to beare:
So weake my powres, so sore my wounds appeare,
that wonder is how I should liue a iot,
seeing my hart through launched euery where
with thousand arrowes, which your eies haue shot:
Yet shoot ye sharpely still, and spare me not,
but glory thinke to make these cruel stoures,
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disablèd
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men
And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell,
Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace,
Seeing the game from him escapt away:
sits downe to rest him in some shady place,
with panting hounds beguiled of their pray.
So after long pursuit and vaine assay,
when I all weary had the chace forsooke,
the gentle deare returnd the selfe-same way,
thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke.
There she beholding me with mylder looke,
sought not to fly, but fearelesse still did bide:
If you can ignore your true culture,
Then you are mentally ill.
If you are lacking true superstructure,
Better then you take suicide pill.
Never use your dream infrastructure,
Not every blank you must fill.
Backbone no longer agriculture,
For corruption pays all the bill.
In the blaze of the buttercup morning,
Bluejays were reeling in rich lapis skies,
And for miles lush nature was adorning,
In the golden age of hued butterflies!
Yellow and lovely were the flower fields,
Reaching forever at bright edge of day,
Yet long before dawn was destiny sealed,
With the promise of the endless bouquet.
I was cooped inside all the afternoon,
Missing tree and bush and garden madness;
But from my window I saw abstract blooms,
In rain's watercolors, nature's canvas!
They brightened the day, in absence of sun,
While the storm distorted without mercy,
Views of bold colors, from the lush season,
As the frantic blooms made many a curtsey.
Dusty rose and orange gold when daybreaks;
And burnished reds and mauve at setting sun.
The mountains in shades of beauty awakes;
And retires to the same when day is done.
The mountains are massed in riotous blooms,
While sometimes obscured by lemony clouds,
As heady scents drift all the afternoons,
And into nights, appearing in dark shrouds.
Life's golden hours take one through so many,
Our footsteps echoing through time's hallways.
Peach dawn through sunset, legs running plenty,
Like brilliant seasons searching for always!
In and out of each other's lives we turn,
Touched with puzzlement by each mystery,
And with our heart's passions slowly we burn,
'Til glowing sunset years' tinged memory!