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 woe
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