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:
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created,
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;
Oh, give my passions leave to run their race;
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye;
Let me no steps but of lost labour trace;
Let all the earth with scorn recount my case,
But do not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envy Aristotle's wit,
Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame;
Down the road someone is practising scales,
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,
Man's heart expands to tinker with his car
For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar;
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,
And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow,
Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast
That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past,
That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time
Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear―
except only that you are merciless.
Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
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!