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Edgar Allan Poe
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 visitor,”
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 visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some 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 mortals 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 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
blest 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.”
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 all my 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 lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press,
ah, nevermore!
Then methought
the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by
Seraphim whose footfalls 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 in 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 lamplight
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!
***
Edgar Allan Poe es traducido por:
- Antonio Rivero Taravillo
Publicado
el 20/5/2010
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