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, dripping, drop by drop,
the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and
Into the valley.
The rosemary nods upon the
The lily lolls upon the
Wrapping the fog its breast,
The molders into rest;
like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious seems to take,
And not, for the world, awake.
All sleeps!- and lo! where lies
Irene, her Destinies!
O, bright! can it be right-
This window to the night?
The airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the drop-
The bodiless airs, a rout,
Flit thy chamber in and out,
And the curtain canopy
So so fearfully-
the closed and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul hid,
That, the floor and down the wall,
Like the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come O'er seas,
A wonder to garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy 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 with 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 tall vault 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, many an idle
tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall an echo more,
Thrilling to think, child of sin!
It was the who groaned within.