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The Conqueror Worm | Poems by Edgar Allan Poe · Ririro.com - Poetry

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  Speaker 1: Lo tis a gala night within the lonesome latter years.
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  Speaker 1: An angel throng, bewinged, bedight in veils, and ground in tears,
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  Speaker 1: sit in a theater to see a play of hopes
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  Speaker 1: and fears, while the orchestra breathes fitfully the music of
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  Speaker 1: the spheres. Mimes in the form of God on high
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  Speaker 1: mutter and mumble low, and hither and thither fly mere puppets,
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  Speaker 1: they who come and go at the bidding of vast,
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  Speaker 1: formless things that shift the scenery to and fro, flapping
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  Speaker 1: from out their condor wings invisible woe that motley drama. Oh,
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  Speaker 1: be sure it shall not be forgot, with its phantom
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  Speaker 1: chaste forevermore by a crowd that sees it, not though
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  Speaker 1: a circle that ever returneth in to the self same spot,
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  Speaker 1: And much of madness, and more of sin and horror
• 0:58
  Speaker 1: the soul of the plot. But see amid the mimic route,
• 1:03
  Speaker 1: a crawling shape intrude, a blood red thing that writhes
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  Speaker 1: from out the scenic solitude. It writhes, it writhes with
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  Speaker 1: mortal pangs. The mimes become its food. An angel sob
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  Speaker 1: at vermin fangs in human gore imbued out out are
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  Speaker 1: the lights out all and over each quivering form the curtain.
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  Speaker 1: A funeral pall comes down with the rush of a storm,
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  Speaker 1: and the angels, all pallid and wan uprising unveiling, affirm
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  Speaker 1: the play is the tragedy Man, and its hero the
• 1:44
  Speaker 1: conqueror Worm eighteen thirty eight.