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 :
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."

Brez trupa - kraj antična je dežela -
stojita v pušči ogromni nogi od kamna.
V pesku natrto obličje. Gube čela,
hlad ustnic pričajo, da je v tirana
oblastiželjnost bral kipar globoko.
Vklesana v mrtev kamen preživela
srce je, ki jo je pojilo, in roko,
ki osmešila jo je, bolj kot posnela.
In na podstavku ta napis je vrezan :
"Ime mi je Ozymandias, kralj kraljev.
Silni, ki moja dela zreš, obupaj!"
Le to se je ohranilo. Okoli kupa
orjaške razbitine se razteza
sam pesek, gladek, gol, brez konca in kraja.