Luyện nghe bài hát The Sleeper

[by Edgar Allan

At midnight, in the of June,
I beneath the mystic moon.
An vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, by drop,
Upon the mountain top,
Steals and musically
the universal valley.
The rosemary nods the grave;
The lolls upon the wave;
the fog about its breast,
The molders into rest;
like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber to take,
And not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! lies
Irene, her Destinies!
O, bright! can it be right-
This open to the night?
The wanton airs, the tree-top,
through the lattice drop-
The bodiless airs, a rout,
Flit through thy in and out,
And the curtain canopy
So fitfully- so
the closed and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring lies hid,
That, the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast no fear?
Why and what art dreaming here?
Sure thou art come far-off seas,
A to these garden trees!
is thy pallor! strange 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 for one more holy,
This bed for one melancholy,
I to God that she may lie
For with unopened eye,
While the 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 unfold-
Some vault that oft has its black
And panels fluttering 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 force an more,
to think, poor child of sin!
It was the who groaned within.