I Consider Poetry Very Subordinate

The Everlasting Universe Of Things Flows Through The Mind, And Rolls Its Rapid Waves, Now Dark--now Glittering--now Reflecting Gloom-- Now Lending Splendour, Where From Secret Springs The Source Of Human Thought Its Tribute Brings.

Then Black Despair, The Shadow Of A Starless Night, Was Thrown Over The World In Which I Moved Alone.

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.

Change Is Certain. Peace Is Followed By Disturbances; Departure Of Evil Men By Their Return. Such Recurrences Should Not Constitute Occasions For Sadness But Realities For Awareness, So That One May Be Happy In The Interim.

As Belief Is A Passion Of The Mind, No Degree Of Criminality Is Attachable To Disbelief.