And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

<i>Ozymandias</i>, Percy Bysshe Shelley: 1818

And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

<i>Kubla Khan</i>, Samuel Taylor Coleridge: 1797

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand!
And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
As is the ribbed sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown."–
Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest!
This body drop not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.

<i>The Rime of the Ancient Mariner</i>, Samuel Taylor Coleridge: 1798

It is a woe too "deep for tears," when all
Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit,
Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves
Those who remain behind, not sobs or groans,
The passionate tumult of a clinging hope;
But pale despair and cold tranquility,
Nature's vast frame, the web of human things,
Birth and the grave, that are not as they were.

<i>Alastor</i>, Percy Bysshe Shelley: 1816

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old man dwells, a little man,–
'Tis said he once was tall.
Full five-and-thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.

<i>Simon Lee</i>, William Wordsworth: 1798

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Childe Harold bask'd him in the noon-tide sun,
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Disporting there like any other fly;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Nor deem'd before his little day was done
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;One blast might chill him into misery.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He felt the fulness of satiety:
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Then loath'd he in his native land to dwell,
Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.

<i>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage</i>, George Gordon, Lord Byron: 1812-18

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

<i>The Tyger</i>, William Blake: 1794

I want a hero: an uncommon want,
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan,
We all have seen him in the pantomime
Sent to the devil, somewhat ere his time.

<i>Don Juan</i>, George Gordon, Lord Byron: 1818-24

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Little Lamb, who made thee?
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life & bid thee feed,
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave the such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Little Lamb who made thee?
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Dost thou know who made thee?

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Little Lamb I'll tell thee!
He is callèd by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb;
He is meek and he is mild,
He became a little child;
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are callèd by his name.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Little Lamb God bless thee.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Little Lamb God bless thee.

<i>The Lamb</i>, William Blake: 1789

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep
He hath awakened from the dream of life
'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife
Invulnerable nothings. — We decay
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

The One remains, the many change and pass;
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly;
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die,
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!
Follow where all is fled! — Rome's azure sky,
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.

<i>Adonaïs</i>, Percy Bysshe Shelley: 1821