Luyện nghe bài hát Abstract Thoughts

[by Edgar Poe]

Lo! 'tis night
Within the lonesome years!
An angel throng, bewinged,
In veils, and in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of and fears,
While the breathes fitfully
The of the spheres.

Mimes, in of God on high,
and mumbled low,
And and thither fly
puppets they,who come and go
At biding of vast formless
shift the scenary to and fro,
Flapping out of their Condor wings
Woe!

The drama-oh, be sure
It not be forgot!
its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a that seize it not,
Through a that ever returneth in
To the spot,
And much of Madness, and of Sin,
And the soul of the plot.

But see, among the rout
A shape intrude!
A blood red that writhes from out
The solitude!
It writhes! It writhes! With mortal
The mimes its food,
And the sob at vermin fangs
In gore
imbuted.

Out-out are the all!
And, over quivering form,
The curtain, the pall,
down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all and wan,
Uprising, unveiling,
That the is the tragedy "Man"
and its the
worm.