Luyện nghe bài hát Abstract Thoughts

[by Edgar Allen

Lo! 'tis agala
Within the latter years!
An throng, bewinged, bedight
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 and thither fly
puppets they,who come and go
At biding of vast things
That shift the to and fro,
Flapping out of their Condor wings
Woe!

The motley drama-oh, be
It not be forgot!
With its Phantom 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, among the mimic
A shape intrude!
A blood red thing writhes from out
The solitude!
It writhes! It writhes! With mortal
The mimes its food,
And the angels sob at vermin
In human
imbuted.

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