Wrinkled Four Pouty Lips Poem by James McLain

Met I met a traveller from Florida,
lost in the past this antique of all land
Whom is was it said:
`Four vast and trunkless legs made of sand stone,
that Stand in the gulf. to I am to Near them, on the bottom is sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose broad frown,
And wrinkled pouty lips, and sneer often cold listless command,
Tell that is its sculptor well are those passions read
Which yet may or may not still survive, stamped on these lifeless full socketed things,
The hand that fed them and the heart that mocked them.
And on this the pedestal these words did appear.
You and you there, come now here and did name me,
often mine is James, spoken king of kings:
Look off on too my right granite pink mighty works,
yea to thee is your sight, they are Mighty,
and look down and then out look deep and despair!
Nothing beside me, my books made from stone remain.
Round the round ring, walking, smell of smells, decay.
Of that deep wreck, boneless and white bare.
The lone and level green now brown are the tree stands
that stretch off in the distance,
then backing in off will appear too you, far away.'