Edgar Allan Poe's "The Conqueror Worm" depicts life as a grotesque play in which humans are no more than puppets caught in an endless cycle of suffering and fear. An audience of angels looks on aghast as the cycle perpetuates itself, but can do nothing to intervene, suggesting that humanity is ultimately on its own. All this pain and misery ends only when death—depicted as a monstrous worm—arrives and devours everyone. The poem bleakly (and gleefully) suggests that life is horrifying and death inevitable. Originally published in the January 1843 issue of Graham's Magazine, the poem was collected in The Raven and Other Poems in 1845.
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1Lo! 'tis a gala night
2 Within the lonesome latter years!
3An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
4 In veils, and drowned in tears,
5Sit in a theatre, to see
6 A play of hopes and fears,
7While the orchestra breathes fitfully
8 The music of the spheres.
9Mimes, in the form of God on high,
10 Mutter and mumble low,
11And hither and thither fly—
12 Mere puppets they, who come and go
13At bidding of vast formless things
14 That shift the scenery to and fro,
15Flapping from out their Condor wings
16 Invisible Wo!
17That motley drama—oh, be sure
18 It shall not be forgot!
19With its Phantom chased for evermore
20 By a crowd that seize it not,
21Through a circle that ever returneth in
22 To the self-same spot,
23And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
24 And Horror the soul of the plot.
25But see, amid the mimic rout,
26 A crawling shape intrude!
27A blood-red thing that writhes from out
28 The scenic solitude!
29It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
30The mimes become its food,
31And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
32 In human gore imbued.
33Out—out are the lights—out all!
34 And, over each quivering form,
35The curtain, a funeral pall,
36 Comes down with the rush of a storm,
37While the angels, all pallid and wan,
38 Uprising, unveiling, affirm
39That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
40 And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
1Lo! 'tis a gala night
2 Within the lonesome latter years!
3An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
4 In veils, and drowned in tears,
5Sit in a theatre, to see
6 A play of hopes and fears,
7While the orchestra breathes fitfully
8 The music of the spheres.
9Mimes, in the form of God on high,
10 Mutter and mumble low,
11And hither and thither fly—
12 Mere puppets they, who come and go
13At bidding of vast formless things
14 That shift the scenery to and fro,
15Flapping from out their Condor wings
16 Invisible Wo!
17That motley drama—oh, be sure
18 It shall not be forgot!
19With its Phantom chased for evermore
20 By a crowd that seize it not,
21Through a circle that ever returneth in
22 To the self-same spot,
23And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
24 And Horror the soul of the plot.
25But see, amid the mimic rout,
26 A crawling shape intrude!
27A blood-red thing that writhes from out
28 The scenic solitude!
29It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
30The mimes become its food,
31And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
32 In human gore imbued.
33Out—out are the lights—out all!
34 And, over each quivering form,
35The curtain, a funeral pall,
36 Comes down with the rush of a storm,
37While the angels, all pallid and wan,
38 Uprising, unveiling, affirm
39That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
40 And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned 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 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 Wo!
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 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.
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
The Poem Aloud — Hear the poem recited—with gusto!—by American actor Vincent Price.
A Brief Biography — Learn more about Edgar Allan Poe's life and work.
Poe's Manuscripts — Peruse an online catalogue of Poe's letters, manuscripts, and personal belongings from the Poe Museum.
Poe's "Ligeia" — Read "Ligeia"—a story of Poe's that includes "The Conqueror Worm" as part of its plot.
Poe's Legacy — Read an article about Poe's contributions to literature, his enduring legacy, and the circuitous way his work entered the mainstream.