Edgar Allan Poe

THE RAVEN
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, week and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten loreWhile I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
'Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber doorOnly this and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name LenoreNameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber doorSome late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is and nothing more.
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Sir, said I, or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you - here I opened wide the door: Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore?
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lenore!
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
Surely, said I, surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery exploreLet my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; 'Tis the wind and nothing more!
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber doorPerched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber doorPerched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
Though the crest be shorn and shaven, thou, I said, art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shoreTell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!
Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber doorBird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as Nevermore.

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered-not a feather then he flutteredTill I scarcely more than muttered, Other friends have flown beforeOn the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.
Then the bird said, Nevermore.
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
Doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden boreTill the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never-nevermore.'
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yoreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking Nevermore.
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at case reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
Wretch, I cried, thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaft, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!
Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.
Prophet! said I, thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted On this home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, I imploreIs there-is there balm in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, I implore!
Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.
Prophet! said I, thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adoreTell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name LenoreClasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.
Be that word our bird or fiend! I shrieked, sign of parting,upstartingGet thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off
my door!
Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore!


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http://poezii.citatepedia.ro/de.php?a=Edgar+Allan+Poe

Corbul
Stnd, cndva, la miez de noapte, istovit, furat de oapte
Din oracole ceoase, cri cu tlc tulburtor,
Piroteam, uitnd de toate, cnd deodat-aud cum bate,
Cineva prea c bate bate-n ua mea uor.
"E vreun trector gndit-am i-a btut ntmpltor.
Doar att, un trector."
O, mai pot uita vreodat? Vnt, decembrie cu zloat,
Jaru-agoniza, c-un straniu dans de umbre pe covor,
Beznele-mi ddeau trcoale i niciunde-n cri vreo cale
S-mi aline greaua jale jalea grea pentru Lenore
Fata fr-asemuire ngerii i spun Lenore
Nume-n lume trector.
n perdele nvinse roul veted de mtase
Cu-o fonire de neliniti, ca-ntr-un spasm chinuitor;
i-mi spuneam, s nu mai geam inima zvcnind de team:
"E vreun om care m cheam, vrnd s afle-un ajutor
Rtcit prin frig i noapte vrea s cear-un ajutor
Nu-i dect un trector."
Astfel linitindu-mi gndul i de spaime dezlegndu-l
"Domnule am spus sau doamn, cer iertare, v implor;
Podidit de oboseal eu dormeam, fr-ndoial,
i-ai btut prea cu sfial, prea sfios, prea temtor;
Am crezut c-i doar prere!" i-am deschis, netemtor,
Bezn, niciun trector.
i-am rmas n prag o vreme, inima simind cum geme,
Nluciri vedeam, cum nimeni n-a avut, vreun muritor;
Noapte numai, nesfrit, bezna-n sinea-i adncit,
i o vorb, doar optit, ce-am optit-o eu: "Lenore!"
Doar ecou-adnc al beznei mi-a rspuns optit: "Lenore!"
Doar ecoul trector.
ntorcndu-m-n odaie, tmplele-mi ardeau vpaie,
i-auzii din nou btaia, parc mai struitor.
"La fereastr este, poate, vreun drume strein ce bate...
Nu tiu, semnele-s ciudate, vreau s aflu tlcul lor.
Vreau, de sunt n bezn taine, s descopr tlcul lor!"
Vnt i niciun trector.
Geamul l-am deschis o clip i, c-un fonet grav de-arip,
a intrat un Corb, strvechiul timpului stpnitor.
N-a-ncercat vreo plecciune de salut sau sfiiciune,
Ci fptura-i de tciune i-a oprit, solemn, din zbor,
Chiar pe bustul albei Palas ca un Domn stpnitor,
Sus, pe bust, se-opri din zbor.
Printre negurile-mi dese, parc-un zmbet mi-adusese,
Cum privea, umflat n pene, ano i ncreztor.
i-am vorbit: "i-e creasta cheal, totui intri cu-ndrzneal,
Corb btrn, strigoi de smoal dintr-al nopii-adnc sobor!
Care i-e regalul nume dat de-al Iadului sobor?"
Spuse Corbul: "Nevermore!"
Mult m-am minunat, firete, auzindu-l cum rostete
Chiar i-o vorb fr noim, croncnit-ntmpltor;
ns nu tiu om pe lume s primeasc-n cas-anume

Pasre ce-i spune-un nume sus, pe bust, oprit-n zbor

Pasre, de nu stafie, stnd pe-un bust strlucitorCorb ce-i spune: "Nevermore".
Dar, n neagra-i sihstrie, alta nu prea c tie,
Sufletul i-l mbrcase c-un cuvnt sfietor.
Mult rmase, ca o stan n-a micat nici fulg, nici pan,
Pn-am spus: "S-au dus, n goan, muli prieteni, muli, ca-n zbor
Va pleca i el, ca mine, cum s-a dus Ndejdea-n zbor".
Spuse Corbul: "Nevermore".
Uluit s-aud c-ncearc vorb cugetat parc,
M-am gndit: "E-o vorb numai, de-altele-i netiutor.
L-a-nvat vreun om, pe care Marile Dezastre-amare
L-au purtat fr-ncetare cu-st refren chinuitor
Bocetul Ndejdii-nfrnte i-a ritmat, chinuitor,
Doar cuvntul: "Nevermore"".
Corbul rscolindu-mi, ns, desndejdea-n suflet strns,
Jilul mi l-am tras alturi, lng bustul sclipitor;
Gnduri rnduiam, i vise, doruri, i ndejdi ucise,
Lng vorba ce-o rostise Corbul nopii, cobitor
Cioclu chel, spectral, sinistru, bdran i cobitor
Vorba Never Nevermore.
Nemicat, nvins de fric, ns negrind nimic,
l priveam cum m fixeaz, pn-n gnd strbttor,
i simeam iar ndoiala, mngiat de cptueala
Jilului, pe care pala raz-l lumina uor
Dar pe care niciodat nu-l va mngia, uor,
Ea, pierduta mea Lenore.
i-am simit deodat-o boare, din cui aromitoare,
Nevzui pluteau, c-un clinchet, pai de nger pe covor;
"ie, ca s nu mai sngeri, i trimite Domnul ngeri"
Eu mi-am spus "s uii de plngeri, i de dusa ta Lenore.
Bea licoarea de uitare, uit gndul la Lenore!"
Spuse Corbul: "Nevermore".
"Tu, profet cu neagr pan, vraci, oracol, sau satan,
Sol al Beznei sau Gheenei, dac eti iscoditor,
n noroasa mea ruin, lng-un rm fr lumin,
Unde spaima e regin spune-mi, spune-mi te implor,
Este-n Galaad gsi-voi un balsam alintor?"
Spuse Corbul: "Nevermore".
"Tu, profet cu neagr pan, vraci, oracol, sau satan,
Spune-mi, pe tria bolii i pe Domnul ierttor,
Sufletu-ntlni-va oare, n Edenul plin de floare,
Cea mai pur-ntre fecioare ngerii i spun Lenore
Fata creia i-n ceruri ngerii i spun Lenore?"
Spuse Corbul: "Nevermore".
"Fie-i blestemat cuvntul! Piei, cu beznele i vntul,
Piei n bezn i furtun, sau pe rmul Nopii-n zbor!
Nu-mi lsa nici fulg n cas din minciuna-i veninoas!
Singur pentru veci m las! Pleac de pe bust n zbor!
Scoate-i pliscu-nfipt n mine, pleac la Satan, n zbor!"
Spuse Corbul: "Nevermore".
i de-atunci, pe todeauna, Corbul st, i st ntruna,
Sus, pe albul bust, deasupra uii mele, pnditor,
Ochii venic stau de paz, ochi de demon ce viseaz,
Lampa i prelinge-o raz de pe pana-i pe covor;
tiu, eu n-am s scap din umbra-i nemicat pe covor.
Niciodat Nevermore.

An Enigma
"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
Through all the flimsy things we see at once
As easily as through a Naples bonnetTrash of all trash!- how can a lady don it?
Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuffOwl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
The general tuckermanities are arrant
Bubbles- ephemeral and so transparentBut this is, now- you may depend upon itStable, opaque, immortal- all by dint
Of the dear names that he concealed within 't.

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(1924)

Edgar Allan Poe

SONG
I saw thee on thy bridal day When a burning blush came oer thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world al love before thee:
And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.

That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame As such it well may pass Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!
Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush would come oer thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee.
(1827-1845)

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http://www.edgarpoe.ru/stixi/
THE HAUNTED PALACE
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace Radiant palace reared its head.
In the monarch Thoughts dominion It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow (This all this was in the olden
Time long ago)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lutes well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting,
Porphyrogene,
In state his glory well befitting
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of suprassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarchs high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn! for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old-time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the encrimsoned windows see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh but smile no more.
(1838-1848)

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