Lo! 'tis a gala night within The lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedecked In veils. And drowned in tears Sit in a theater, to see A play of hopes and fears While the orchestra breathes The music of the spheres
Mimes, in the form of god in high Mutter and mumble low, And hilher they and thither fly Mere puppets they who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery beneath Flapping from out their condor wings Invisible woe!
That molley drama! - Oh, be sure It will not be forgot With phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not Through circle ever returned Into the self same spot And much of madness, more of sin And horror, the soul of 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 pangs In human gore imbued
Out all the lights - out all of them And over each quivering form The curtain, a funeral pall Comes down with the rush of a storm And 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.
