Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
“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.”
Hi folks,
I was out walking Scooter again today, passing by the artwork left by our next-door neighbor, David, before he died. His wife keeps them in pretty good repair now, as a kind of memory of her husband of many years. He used to spend hours out there arranging rocks, placing everything just so, and now that is all that is left, just like Ozymandius. He certainly left an enjoyable legacy for us to admire as we walk along the trail between our respective houses towards the newly installed Carolina North Forest duct bank, which I am sure he would have resisted with all his might. We weren’t happy to hear of this installation, but the university worked to produce the minimum of disruption, and all seems to be well now. Furthermore, they freely let us enjoy the land, maintaining a maze of running and biking trails that extend for almost a hundred miles, apparently.
Some people seem to worry a lot about their legacy, especially politicians it would appear. Me, I prefer to live today, and as I won’t be here I really am not concerned about posterity one iota, apart from my ‘last will and testament’ to protect people I care about, and the way I live with an eye to the environment. I do, however, have concern for our legacy as Ironman triathletes when it comes to the memory we leave in the towns through which we pass on race day. In the Lake Placid Ironman race there is a delightful little village, called Keene, at the bottom of the first long downhill run. You’re not their guests for long as you swerve around that sharp left-hand bend, but while you are there the village is out in force with lots of noisy support.
Then they had the flood this winter, and I am pleased to say that I did send a donation to the recovery fund. I hope that these great people are back on track, as I am looking forward to seeing all of their smiling faces at the race in 2012.
So please keep your trash on the bike, on your person or in the bins when you race. Who wants their legacy to be a sticky gel wrapper on the road? And say thanks to these great people as you go by. It’s just common courtesy, and it will keep our race alive.
Thanks!
-k @FitOldDog
Interesting choice of sonnet.
Shelley was an anarchist and a revolutionary. His problem was he did not live in revolutionary times. He hated kingly power and authority. (See his “Mask of Anarchy”)
I like his verses he writes with passion, total passion. His Missus wrote a brilliant book too!
Hi Trevor, I’ll seek out the book. OK! Off to my dance class. Tx! -k
Mary Shelley, “Frankenstein”