I met a migrant from a humid land who said—“Two vast and corrugated sheets of metal stand in the jungle. . . . near them, on the dirt, half sunk a shattered inscription lies, whose language, and garbled speech, and sneer of cold command, tell that its carver 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 inscription, these words appear:
My name is Diego Nunez De Vasquez, servant of the king of spain; look on my Works, o algo, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the detritus of that steamy jungle, boundless and bare, the throngs of shuffling latinos stretch far away.