Luyện nghe bài hát Abstract Thoughts

[by Edgar Poe]

Lo! 'tis night
the lonesome latter 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
Mere they,who come and go
At biding of vast formless
That shift the to and fro,
Flapping out of their Condor wings
Woe!

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

But see, the mimic rout
A crawling intrude!
A blood red thing that from out
The solitude!
It writhes! It writhes! With mortal
The become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin
In gore
imbuted.

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