Der Rabe. Эдгар Аллан По
Чтение книги онлайн.

Читать онлайн книгу Der Rabe - Эдгар Аллан По страница 2

Название: Der Rabe

Автор: Эдгар Аллан По

Издательство: Bookwire

Жанр: Языкознание

Серия:

isbn: 9783954184354

isbn:

СКАЧАТЬ 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 dar­kness 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.

       Then into the cham­ber tur­ning, all my soul wi­thin me bur­ning,

       Soon I heard again 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 ex­plo­re -

       Let 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 an in­stant stop­ped or stayed he;

       But, with mien of lord or lady, per­ched abo­ve my cham­ber door -

       Per­ched upon a bust of Pal­las just abo­ve my cham­ber door -

       Per­ched, 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 thy crest be shorn and sha­ven, thou,“ I said, „art sure no cra­ven,

       Ghast­ly grim and an­cient ra­ven wan­de­ring from the Night­ly sho­re -

       Tell 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 sub­lu­n­a­ry being

       Ever yet was bles­sed with seeing bird abo­ve his cham­ber door -

       Bird 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 flut­te­red -

       Till I scar­ce­ly more than mut­te­red „Other fri­ends have flown be­fo­re -

       On the mor­row he will lea­ve me, as my ho­pes have flown be­fo­re.“

       Quoth the ra­ven „Ne­ver­mo­re.“

       Won­de­ring 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 so when Hope he would ad­ju­re -

       Stern De­spair re­tur­ned, in­s­tead of the sweet Hope he dared ad­ju­re -

       That sad ans­wer, „Ne­ver - ne­ver­mo­re.“

       But the ra­ven still be­gui­ling all my sad soul 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 yore -

       What 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 ease 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 An­gels who­se faint 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;

       Let me 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 im­plo­re -

       Is the­re - is the­re balm in Gi­lead? - tell me - tell me, I im­plo­re!“

       Quoth the ra­ven „Ne­ver­mo­re.“

       „Be that word our sign in par­ting, bird or fi­end!“ I shrie­ked, ups­t­ar­ting -

       СКАЧАТЬ