Luyện nghe bài hát Abstract Thoughts

[by Edgar Poe]

Lo! agala night
the lonesome latter years!
An throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of and fears,
While the orchestra breathes
The of the spheres.

Mimes, in of God on high,
Mutter and low,
And hither and fly
puppets they,who come and go
At of vast formless things
That the scenary to and fro,
Flapping out of their Condor wings
Woe!

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

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

Out-out are the all!
And, over each 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.