Lo,
it's a gala night,
a mystic throng bedecked.
Sit in the theater to see a play of
hopes and fears while the orchestra
breathes fitfully the music of this feast.
Mimes mutter and mumble low near puppets they who come and go,
disguised as gods they shift
the scenery to and fro,
inevitably trapped by invisible woe.
This motley drama,
to be sure, will not be forgotten.
A phantom chased forevermore,
never seized by the crowd,
though they circle,
returning to the same spot,
circle and return to the self,
same spot,
always to the self,
same spot,
with much of madness and more of sin and horror and mimic rout,
the soul of the plot.
Out,
out are the lights,
out all and over each dying form the curtain.
A funeral poll comes with the rush of a storm.
The angels,
haggard and wan,
unveiling an uprising,
affirm that the play is the tragedy man
and its hero,
the Conqueror Worm.