The Conqueror Worm

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A Dream of Poe

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Lo! 't is 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 Wo! 

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

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