Luyện nghe bài hát The Sleeper

[by Edgar Poe]

At midnight, in the of June,
I stand the mystic moon.
An vapor, dewy, dim,
from out her golden rim,
And, dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the mountain top,
drowsily and musically
Into the valley.
The nods upon the grave;
The lily upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog its breast,
The ruin molders rest;
Looking Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious seems to take,
And not, for the world, awake.
All sleeps!- and lo! where lies
Irene, her Destinies!
O, bright! can it be right-
This window to the night?
The airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly the lattice drop-
The bodiless airs, a rout,
Flit thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain
So fitfully- so
Above the and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul hid,
That, o'er the and down the wall,
Like ghosts the rise and fall!
Oh, dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou here?
Sure thou art O'er far-off seas,
A wonder to garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy of tress,
And all solemn silentness!

The sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its keep!
This chamber changed for one holy,
This bed for one melancholy,
I pray to God she may lie
For ever unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some vault unfold-
Some vault oft has flung its black
And winged panels back,
Triumphant, o'er the palls,
Of her family funerals-
sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she thrown,
In childhood, many an stone-
Some tomb from out whose door
She ne'er force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor of sin!
It was the who groaned within.