Sunday, 15 November 2020


I met a traveller from Islington
Who said—“Two vast and arm-less spectacles
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose bald head,
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 Domimandias, Cummings of Cummings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Geek, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Please support this blog


Drop a thoughtful pebble in the comments bowl