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 lips, 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
I don't normally give a lot of thought to the what will be remembered of me when I'm gone, as I don't think I've had much of a life so far and I don't really know that I am legacy-worthy.
Lately have been working on cleaning up the legacies of three people from the two generations preceding mine and thinking an awful on the irony of their situations. Can't rightly say that any of the departed had intended for things to be as they turned out, much like Ozymandias/Ramses the Second couldn't have imagined the above outcome thousands of years after his death.