But see, amid the mimic rout,    A crawling shape intrude! A bloodred thing that writhes from out       The scenic solitude! It writhes! –it writhes!– with mortal pangs    The mimes become its food, And 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,    While the angels, all pallid and wan,       Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”       And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.