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