Sometimes, you see the damnedest things in a parking lot--in this case, the one shared by the Brooklyn Botanic Garden and the Brooklyn Museum (which count for the purposes of this blog as part of the Greater Prospect Parkopolis).
Behind a chain-link fence, this dejected brave presides over an Island of Misfit Statuary, presumably donated from demolition sites and awaiting proper presentation, perhaps in the museum's nearby sculpture garden. The statue (according to a museum representative quoted by a Flickr photographer) is "The Dying Indian," by Charles Cary Rumsey (1879-1922), done around 1901; donated by the artist's wife in 1930, it once stood in front of the museum. Around him, caryatids and gargoyles (and a felled crop of lampposts) stare skyward from shrouds of midsummer weeds.
Here is a little gallery of fractured grandeur on the ground.
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 shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd 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