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I met a traveler 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."
Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ozymandias

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
T.S. Eliot, The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Bolero, Gustavo Dudamel conducts the Wiener Philharmoniker

Live And Let Die, 2CELLOS & LANG LANG

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