Luyện nghe bài hát The Sleeper

[by Allan Poe]

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,
the quiet mountain top,
Steals and musically
the universal valley.
The nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the
the fog about its breast,
The ruin molders rest;
like 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
window open to the night?
The wanton airs, the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice
The airs, a wizard rout,
through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain
So so fearfully-
Above the and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring lies hid,
That, the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows and fall!
Oh, dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and art thou dreaming here?
Sure art come O'er far-off seas,
A to these garden trees!
is thy pallor! strange thy dress,
Strange, all, thy length of tress,
And this all silentness!

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

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