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 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 upon the wave;
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, lady bright! can it be
This open to the night?
The wanton airs, the tree-top,
Laughingly through the drop-
The bodiless airs, a rout,
Flit through thy in and out,
And the curtain canopy
So so fearfully-
Above the closed and lid
which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and the wall,
ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no
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 have her in its keep!
This chamber for one more holy,
bed for one more 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-
vault that oft has flung its black
And winged fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the palls,
Of her grand funerals-
sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an stone-
Some from out whose sounding door
She ne'er force an echo more,
to think, poor child of sin!
It was the who groaned within.