Listen to:
The Conqueror Worm
by Edgar Allan Poe
performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode
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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