Luyện nghe bài hát The Sleeper

[by Allan Poe]

At midnight, in the of June,
I stand the mystic moon.
An vapor, dewy, dim,
from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, by drop,
the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and
the universal valley.
The rosemary nods the grave;
The lily lolls upon the
the fog about its breast,
The ruin into rest;
Looking Lethe, see! the lake
A slumber seems to take,
And not, for the world, awake.
All sleeps!- and lo! where lies
Irene, her Destinies!
O, lady bright! can it be
This window to the night?
The wanton airs, the tree-top,
Laughingly the lattice drop-
The bodiless airs, a rout,
through thy chamber in and out,
And the curtain canopy
So fitfully- so
Above the and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and the wall,
ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no
Why and what art dreaming here?
Sure thou art O'er far-off seas,
A to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy of tress,
And this all silentness!

The sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its keep!
chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one melancholy,
I to God that she may lie
For with unopened eye,
the pale sheeted ghosts 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 tall vault
Some vault that oft has flung its
And winged panels back,
Triumphant, the crested palls,
Of her grand family
sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she thrown,
In childhood, an idle stone-
Some tomb from out whose door
She ne'er shall an echo more,
to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who within.