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 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 the 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

    And the angels all pallid and wan

    Uprising unveiling affirm

    That the play is the tragedy "Man"

    And its hero the Conqueror Worm.