Luyện nghe bài hát Abstract Thoughts

[by Allen Poe]

Lo! 'tis agala
Within the latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged,
In veils, and in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A of hopes and fears,
the orchestra breathes fitfully
The of the spheres.

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

The motley drama-oh, be
It not be forgot!
With its Phantom for evermore,
By a crowd seize it not,
Through a circle that ever in
To the spot,
And of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the 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 mimes its food,
And the angels sob at vermin
In gore
imbuted.

are the lights-out all!
And, over each form,
The curtain, the pall,
Comes down the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all and wan,
Uprising, unveiling,
the play is the tragedy "Man"
and its the
worm.