Luyện nghe bài hát The Sleeper

[by Edgar Allan

At midnight, in the of June,
I stand beneath the 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 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 Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where
Irene, her Destinies!
O, lady bright! can it be
window open to the night?
The airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the drop-
The bodiless airs, a rout,
through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain
So fitfully- so
Above the closed and lid
'Neath which thy soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows and fall!
Oh, lady dear, thou no fear?
Why and what art thou here?
Sure thou art come O'er seas,
A wonder to 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,
bed for one more melancholy,
I to God that she may lie
For with unopened eye,
While the pale 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 that oft has flung its black
And winged panels back,
Triumphant, o'er the palls,
Of her family funerals-
sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an stone-
tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall an echo more,
to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who within.