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A Terror Omen - Architecture
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Lo! Tis a gala night 
Within the lonesome latter years! 
An Angel throng, bewinged, bedight 
In veils, and drownd 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 mumbe 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 out their Condor wings 
Invisible Wo! 

That motley dram - oh be shure 
It shall not be forgot! 
With its phantom cheased for evermore, 
By a crowd that seize it not, 
Through a circle that ever returneth in 
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 crowling shape intrude! 
A blood-red thing that writhes from out 
The scenic solitude! 
It writhes!--It writhes!--with mortal pangs 
The mimic become its food, 
And the angels sob ar virmin fangs 
In human gore imbued. 

Out-out are the lights-out all! 
And, over each quevering form, 
The curtain, the funeral pall, 
Comes down with the rush of a storm, 
And the angels, all palid and wan, 
Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
And the play is the tragedy, Man 
And its hero is the Conqueror Worm.