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Title: THE CONQUEROR WORM.
Rule: ~~~~~~~~~~~~
Line-01-001 LO! 'tis a gala night
Line-01-002 [[indent]] Within the lonesome latter years!
Line-01-003 An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
Line-01-004 [[indent]] In veils, and drowned in tears,
Line-01-005 Sit in a theatre, to see
Line-01-006 [[indent]] A play of hopes and fears,
Line-01-007 While the orchestra breathes fitfully
Line-01-008 [[indent]] The music of the spheres.
Line-01-009 Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Line-01-010 [[indent]] Mutter and mumble low,
Line-01-011 And hither and thither fly —
Line-01-012 [[indent]] Mere puppets they, who come and go
Line-01-013 At bidding of vast formless things
Line-01-014 [[indent]] That shift the scenery to and fro,
Line-01-015 Flapping from out their Condor wings
Line-01-016 [[indent]] Invisible Wo!
Line-01-017 That motley drama — oh, be sure
Line-01-018 [[indent]] It shall not be forgot!
Line-01-019 With its Phantom chased for evermore,
Line-01-020 [[indent]] By a crowd that seize it not,
Line-01-021 Through a circle that ever returneth in
Line-01-022 [[indent]] To the self-same spot,
Line-01-023 And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
Line-01-024 [[indent]] And Horror the soul of the plot. [page 28:]
Line-01-025 But see, amid the mimic rout
Line-01-026 [[indent]] A crawling shape intrude!
Line-01-027 A blood-red thing that writhes from out
Line-01-028 [[indent]] The scenic solitude!
Line-01-029 It writhes! — it writhes! — with mortal pangs
Line-01-030 [[indent]] The mimes become its food,
Line-01-031 And {{1845-01: the angels //1849-02: seraphs }} sob at vermin fangs
Line-01-032 [[indent]] In human gore imbued.
Line-01-033 Out — out are the lights — out all!
Line-01-034 [[indent]] And, over each quivering form,
Line-01-035 The curtain, a funeral pall,
Line-01-036 [[indent]] Comes down with the rush of a storm,
Line-01-037 {{1845-01: And //1849-02: While }} the angels, all pallid and wan,
Line-01-038 [[indent]] Uprising, unveiling, affirm
Line-01-039 That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
Line-01-040 [[indent]] And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
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[[Alternate presenation giving the text as originally printed, with indications for Poe's changes]]
~~~~~~~~~~~~
LO! 'tis 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. [page 28:]
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 >>the angels<< <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,
>>And<< <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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[S:0 - comparative] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Poems - The Conqueror Worm (comparative - RAOP-JLG)