

| 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. | |
|
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 the 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. | |
Edgar
Allan Poe - 1850
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Darksphere Keep is our Pennsic clan. The group gathers at the Pennsic medieval war each year for camping, partying, and relaxation. Founded in 1999 by Marcus and Kyr, Darksphere Keep was 11 members strong in its second year.
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