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- 1843
- THE CONQUEROR WORM
- by Edgar Allan Poe
-
- 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.
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-
- -THE END-
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