Poets Are The Unacknowledged Legislators Of The

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.

Image Of Rugged Cliffs And So Thy Thoughts, When Thou Art Gone, Love Itself Shall Slumber On.

Revenge And Wrong Bring Forth Their Kind; The Foul Cubs Like Their Parents Are.

A Poet Is A Nightingale, Who Sits In Darkness And Sings To Cheer Its Own Solitude With Sweet Sounds.

Spirit Of Beauty, That Dost Consecrate With Thine Own Hues All Thou Dost Shine Upon Of Human Thought Or Form, Where Art Thou Gone? Why Dost Thou Pass Away And Leave Our State, This Dim Vast Vale Of Tears, Vacant And Desolate? Ask Why The Sunlight Not For Ever Weaves Rainbows O'er Yon Mountain-river, Why Aught Should Fail And Fade That Once Is Shown, Why Fear And Dream And Death And Birth Cast On The Daylight Of This Earth Such Gloom, Why Man Has Such A Scope For Love And Hate, Despondency And Hope?