By popular demand, I'm posting Ozymandias, which is a poem by Shelley. Shelley was aristocratic, so is Justin Welby, the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, sort of.
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 from Welby.
But I'm well-pleased at the performance of my sporter Lee Enfield, which I checked at the range today, prior to a hunting party somewhere in Texas next week. Easier to shoot than the Remington 700 but less substantial.
 |
| A Couple of Guns |
Shoot on and God bless,
LSP
