Part 15 (1/2)

A blood-red thing that writhes from out

The scenic solitude!

It writhes!-it writhes!-with mortal pangs

The mimes become its food,

And the angels 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,

And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy ”Man,”

And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

The Bells

I.

Hear the sledges with the bells-

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!

While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle