One of my favorite of Poe's work is The Raven which, up until now, I had never read in Spanish. I must confess that I like the original much more than the translation, I believe something gets lost when translating. So I proceed to transcribe the original poem here as you can find in the book The Portable Poe (which you can find in this
link provided in my coursera class).
THE RAVEN
Once
upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over
many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I
nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of
some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“ ’Tis
some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only
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 Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the
angels name Lenore—
Nameless 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 visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visiter 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 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.
Back
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 a minute 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 living human 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
farther 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.”
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 bore—
Till 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 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 lamplight 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 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;
Quaff, 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 implore—
Is
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 adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that
word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get
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!
****
