to

Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

m

BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822)

OZYMANDIAS

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 mock'd 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!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

ODE TO THE WEST WIND

I

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow