Lo！ 't is a gala night

    Within the lonesome latter years！

    An angel throng¹ 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.

    Mimes² in the form of God on high

    Mutter and mumble³ low

    And hither and thither⁴ fly -

    Mere⁵ puppets they who come and go

    At bidding of vast formless things

    That shift the scenery to and fro

    Flapping from out their Condor⁶ wings

    Invisible Woe⁷！

    That motley drama！ - oh be sure

    It shall not be forgot！

    With its Phantom⁸ 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 mimic⁹ rout¹⁰

    A crawling shape intrude¹¹！

    A blood-red thing that writhes¹² from out

    The scenic¹³ solitude¹⁴！

    It writhes！ - it writhes！ - with mortal pangs¹⁵

    The mimes become its food

    And the seraphs sob¹⁶ at vermin fangs¹⁷

    In human gore¹⁸ imbued¹⁹.

    Out - out are the lights - out all！

    And over each quivering form

    The curtain a funeral pall²⁰

    Comes down with the rush of a storm

    And the angels all pallid²¹ and wan²²

    Uprising unveiling affirm

    That the play is the tragedy "Man"

    And its hero the Conqueror²³ Worm.

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