Der Rabe - Эдгар Аллан По

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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 -

       „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 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!

       Trau­rig saß ich, über­wacht, ein­sam noch um Mit­ter­nacht,

       Un­ter al­ten Fo­li­an­ten, von ver­gang’­nen Zei­ten schwer,

       Und ich, fast ent­schla­fen, nick­te, da ich hör­te, wie es pick­te,

       Pick­te wie ein lei­ses Klop­fen an der Kam­mer­tü­re – Wer?

       Kömmt be­su­chend, sprach ich lei­se, noch in spä­ter Nacht da­her?

       Ein Be­such ist’s und nichts mehr.

       Ja, ich weiß ge­nau es noch, war es im De­zem­ber doch,

       Feu­er­schein strömt auf den Bo­den aus des Ofens Koh­lenthor,

       Und ich dach­te, wär’s doch Mor­gen, und ver­ge­bens woll­t’ ich bor­gen

       Von den Bü­chern an­d’res Den­ken, als an das, was ich ver­lor.

       An das En­gels­kind im Him­mel, eins­tens mei­ne Leo­nor’.

       Ach, ich blieb doch wie zu­vor.

       Mei­ner Fens­ter Pur­pur­kleid rausch­te in der Dun­kel­heit,

       Mich er­fül­lend, mir ent­hül­lend un­be­kann­tes Geis­ter­dräu’n.

       Mei­nen Herz­schlag zu be­zäh­men, sagt ich mir: Du sollst Dich schä­men,

       Was soll die­ses Geis­ter­grau­en?

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