Poe, ''Conqueror Worm'' (1843)

  
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 Woe.	 
  
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 over each quivering form	 
  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.