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 from out her rim,
And, softly dripping, by drop,
Upon the quiet top,
drowsily and musically
Into the valley.
The rosemary nods the grave;
The lily upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog its breast,
The molders into rest;
like Lethe, see! the lake
A slumber seems to take,
And not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! lies
Irene, her Destinies!
O, bright! can it be right-
window open to the night?
The airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice
The airs, a wizard rout,
through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain
So fitfully- so
Above the closed and lid
'Neath thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the and down the wall,
Like ghosts the rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, thou no fear?
Why and what art thou here?
Sure thou art O'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these trees!
Strange is thy pallor! 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,
bed for one more melancholy,
I to God that she may lie
For ever with 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 tall vault unfold-
Some vault oft has flung its black
And winged fluttering back,
Triumphant, the crested palls,
Of her family funerals-
sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an stone-
Some tomb from out whose door
She ne'er shall an echo more,
to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who within.