The Conqueror Worm
Lo!
'tis
a
gala
night
Within
the
lonesome
latter
years!
An
angel
throng,
bewinged,
bedight
In
veils,
and
drowned
in
tears,
Sit
in
a
theatre,
to
see
A
play
of
hopes
and
fears,
While
the
orchestra
breathes
fitfully
The
music
of
the
spheres.
Mimes,
in
the
form
of
God
on
high,
Mutter
and
mumble
low,
And
hither
and
thither
fly-
Mere
puppets
they,
who
come
and
go
At
bidding
of
vast
formless
things
That
shift
the
scenery
to
and
fro,
Flapping
from
out
their
Condor
wings
Invisible
Woe!
That
motley
drama-
oh,
be
sure
It
shall
not
be
forgot!
With
its
Phantom
chased
for
evermore,
By
a
crowd
that
seize
it
not,
Through
a
circle
that
ever
returneth
in
To
the
self-same
spot,
And
much
of
Madness,
and
more
of
Sin,
And
Horror
the
soul
of
the
plot.
But
see,
amid
the
mimic
rout
A
crawling
shape
intrude!
A
blood-red
thing
that
writhes
from
out
The
scenic
solitude!
It
writhes!-
it
writhes!-
with
mortal
pangs
The
mimes
become
its
food,
And
seraphs
sob
at
vermin
fangs
In
human
gore
imbued.
Out-
out
are
the
lights-
out
all!
And,
over
each
quivering
form,
The
curtain,
a
funeral
pall,
Comes
down
with
the
rush
of
a
storm,
While
the
angels,
all
pallid
and
wan,
Uprising,
unveiling,
affirm
That
the
play
is
the
tragedy,
"Man,"
And
its
hero
the
Conqueror
Worm.
