Luyện nghe bài hát The Sleeper

[by Edgar Poe]

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,
the quiet mountain top,
Steals and musically
Into the valley.
The rosemary nods upon the
The lily upon the wave;
the fog about its breast,
The ruin molders rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the
A slumber seems to take,
And not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where
Irene, her Destinies!
O, bright! can it be right-
window open to the night?
The airs, from the tree-top,
through the lattice drop-
The bodiless airs, a rout,
Flit through thy in and out,
And the curtain canopy
So so fearfully-
Above the closed and lid
'Neath thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and the wall,
Like ghosts the rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast no fear?
Why and what art thou here?
thou art come 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 her in its sacred keep!
This changed for one more holy,
This bed for one melancholy,
I pray to God she may lie
For ever with 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 some tall unfold-
vault that oft has flung its black
And winged panels back,
Triumphant, the crested palls,
Of her grand family
sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she thrown,
In childhood, many an idle
Some from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an more,
to think, poor child of sin!
It was the who groaned within.