'The Conqueror Worm' by Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry

The Conqueror Worm

Edgar Allan Poe (1843)

Lo! ’t is a gala night Within the lonesome latter years — A mystic 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 shadowy 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 forevermore, 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 the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued! Out — out are the lights — out all! And, over each dying form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the seraphs, all haggard and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy “Man,” Its hero the Conqueror Worm.


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