wentallout · January 29, 2026 19:51
diff --git a/The Conqueror Worm By Edgar Allan Poe b/The Conqueror Worm By Edgar Allan Poe
 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 Wo!

 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 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,   
 While the angels, all pallid and wan,   
   Uprising, unveiling, affirm
 That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”   
   And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
	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 Wo!

	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 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,
	While the angels, all pallid and wan,
	Uprising, unveiling, affirm
	That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
	And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
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