Luyện nghe bài hát Abstract Thoughts

[by Edgar Allen

Lo! 'tis 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,
the orchestra 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 of vast formless things
That shift the to and fro,
Flapping from out of their Condor
Woe!

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

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

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