The Conqueror Worm

9Mimes, in the form of God on high,

10 Mutter and mumble low,

11And hither and thither fly —

12 Mere puppets they, who come and go

13At bidding of vast formless things

14 That shift the scenery to and fro,

15Flapping from out their Condor wings

16 Invisible Wo!

17That motley drama — oh, be sure

18 It shall not be forgot!

19With its Phantom chased for evermore,

20 By a crowd that seize it not,

21Through a circle that ever returneth in

22 To the self-same spot,

23And much of Madness, and more of Sin,

24 And Horror the soul of the plot.

25But see, amid the mimic rout

26 A crawling shape intrude!

27A blood-red thing that writhes from out

28 The scenic solitude!

29It writhes! — it writhes! — with mortal pangs

30 The mimes become its food,

31And the angels sob at vermin fangs

32 In human gore imbued.

33Out — out are the lights — out all!

34 And, over each quivering form,

35The curtain, a funeral pall,

36 Comes down with the rush of a storm,

37And the angels, all pallid and wan,

38 Uprising, unveiling, affirm

39That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"

40 And its hero the Conqueror Worm.