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 over each quivering form 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 WormTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
