The Conqueror Worm

Am
Lo! 't is a gala night
C                    Em
Within the lonesome latter years!
Am
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
C              Em
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Am
Sit in a theatre, to see
C          Em
A play of hopes and fears,
Am
While the orchestra breathes 
fitfully
C                 Em
The music of the spheres.

Am
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
C           Em
Mutter and mumble low,
Am
And hither and thither fly -
     C                 Em
Mere puppets they, who come and go
Am
At bidding of vast formless things
    C                  Em
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Am
Flapping from out their Condor wings
C   Em
  Invisible Wo!

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Bridge or whatever - Dm Am C Em


Am
That motley drama - oh, be sure
C            Em
It shall not be forgot!
Am
With its Phantom chased for evermore
      C          Em
By a crowd that seize it not,
Am                                
Through a circle that ever 
   C
returneth in
        Em
To the self - same spot,
   Dm                    Am
And much of Madness, and more of 
Sin,
     C    Em                  Dm
And Horror  the soul of the plot.

(I start playing bridge on the 
"plot")
Dm Am C Em

Am
But see, amid the mimic rout,
  C         Em
A crawling shape intrude!
  Am
A blood-red thing that writhes from 
out
     C      Em
The scenic solitude!
    Am
It writhes! - it writhes! - with 
mortal pangs
    C       Em
The mimes become its food,
  Am
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
     C           Em
In human gore imbued.

Dm Am C Em

Am
Out - out are the lights - out all!
     C          Em
And, over each quivering form,
    Am
The curtain, a funeral pall,
      C              Em
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
 Am
While the angels, all pallid and 
wan,
  C           Em
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
         Am
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
         C   Em              Dm
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
(Again, the bridge)