Lo! 'Tis a gale night
Within the lonesome later years!
An angel distraught, bewinged, bedlight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre of sorrow to see,
A play of hopes and fears,
Crushed away while the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
, in the form of Arceus on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly -
Mere puppets they are, who come and go,
At bidding of vast, formless, things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Braviary wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama - oh, do be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With it's Dusknoir chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever spins in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and much more of Kin,
And Horrify the silvering 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 sobbed at vermin fangs
When the horrifying gore imbued.
Out - Out are the lights - Out all!
And, over each wavering form,
The curtain! - A funeral pall!
Comes down with the swift of a Tornadus storm,
While the angels of Arceus, all of famine and pestilence,
Uprising, unveiling, alark
That the play is the tragedy, "Tell-Tale Heart of the Old Chateau" - Made known of existence,
And its hero the Conqueror Arbok.