Luyện nghe bài hát The Sleeper

[by Allan Poe]

At midnight, in the of June,
I beneath the mystic moon.
An vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her rim,
And, softly dripping, by drop,
the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and
Into the valley.
The nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the
Wrapping the fog its breast,
The ruin into rest;
Looking Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber to take,
And not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where
Irene, her Destinies!
O, bright! can it be right-
This open to the night?
The airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the drop-
The airs, a wizard rout,
through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the canopy
So so fearfully-
Above the closed and lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul 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 O'er seas,
A wonder to garden trees!
is thy pallor! strange thy dress,
Strange, all, thy length of tress,
And all solemn silentness!

The sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven her in its sacred keep!
This chamber for one more holy,
bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God she may lie
For ever 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 worms her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall unfold-
Some that oft has flung its black
And panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the palls,
Of her family funerals-
sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she thrown,
In childhood, many an stone-
tomb from out whose sounding door
She shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor of sin!
It was the dead who within.