His face deformed, his figure tall and thin,
The phantom lurks in evening-clothes below.
Ascending every night to hear the din:
Carlotta screeching high, Carolus low.

The opera is the phantom’s final home,
Although he used to travel in his youth,
He now lives in the cellars like a gnome,
To hide his face, to mask the awful truth.

The phantom looks like death. Because of that,
He never shows himself to anyone.
He creeps around as silent as a cat,
Making stagehands blanch and dancers run.

... ...He waits within his box; he’s not yet seen—
... ...But he has heard the singer named Christine.