Poe, Edgar Allan: Der Rabe (The Raven in German)
The Raven (English)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 someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " 'T is 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. " 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- That 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 the 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 explore-- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore-- 'T is the wind an 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 a bove 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 marveled 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 outpoor. Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more then 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 utteres is it 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 the 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 lamp-light gloated o'er But whose velvet-violet lining with 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 has lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite -- respite the 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 of devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whatever tempest tossed thee 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 of 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 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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Der Rabe (German)Einst in dunkler Mittnachtstunde, als ich in entschwundner Kunde »Irgend ein Besucher«, dacht’ ich, »pocht zur Nachtzeit noch ans Tor –
Weiter nichts« – so kommt mir’s vor. – Aus den Büchern für das Sorgen um die einzige Lenor’,
Um die wunderbar Geliebte – Engel nannten sie Lenor’ – Um zu stillen Herzens Schlagen, Herzens Zittern, Herzens Zagen,
Mußt’ ich murmelnd nochmals sagen: »Ein Besucher klopft ans Tor – »Herr«, so sprach ich, »oder Dame, ach verzeihen Sie, mein Ohr
Hat Ihr Pochen kaum vernommen, denn ich war schon schlafbenommen, Starr in dieses Dunkel spähend, stand ich lange, nicht verstehend,
Träume träumend, die kein ird’scher Träumer je gewagt zuvor, Nichts als dies vernahm mein Ohr. –
Da ich wieder klopfen hörte, etwas lauter als zuvor. Herz, sei still, ich will entwirren dieses Rätsels dunklen Flor,
Wind wohl machte da Rumor.« Flog in edelmännischer Neigung zu dem Pallashaupt empor,
Grade über meiner Türe auf das Pallashaupt empor – »Ob auch schäbig und geschoren, kommst du,« sprach ich, »unverfroren,
Niemand hat dich herbeschworen aus dem Land der Nacht hervor. Kam die Antwort mir auch wenig sinnvoll und erklärend vor.
Denn noch nie war dies geschehen: Über seiner Türe stehen Doch ich hört’ in seinem Krächzen seine ganze Seele ächzen, War auch kurz sein Wort und brachte er auch nichts als dieses vor. Sprach der Rabe: »Nie du Tor.«
Bis er trostlos trauerklagte in verstörter Lieder Chor
Mit dem Kehrreim »Nie du Tor«. Da der Rabe das bedrückte Herz zu Lächeln mir berückte Rollte ich den Polsterstuhl zur Büste, Tür und Vogel vor, Über solchen Tiers Beginnen: was er wohl gewollt zuvor – Was der alte finstergrimme Vogel wohl gewollt zuvor Seine Feueraugen wühlten mir das Innerste empor. Saß und kam zu keinem Wissen, Herz und Hirn schien fortgerissen,
Lehnte meinen Kopf aufs Kissen lichtbegossen – das Lenor Edler Engel, deren Schreiten rings vom Teppich klang empor.
»Narr!« so schrie ich, »Gott bescherte dir durch Engel das begehrte »Weiser!« rief ich, »sonder Zweifel Weiser! – ob nun Tier, ob Teufel –.
Ob dich Höllending die Hölle oder Wetter warf hervor, Sprach der Rabe: »Nie du Tor.«
Sie, die Himmlische, umarmen, die bei Engeln heißt Lenor?« Sprach der Rabe: »Nie du Tor.« Hat mir weh das Herz durchstochen. – Fort, von deinem Thron hervor!«
Heb’ dein Wort aus meinem Herzen – heb dich fort, vom Thron hervor!« Und der Rabe rührt sich nimmer, sitzt noch immer, sitzt noch immer
Auf der blassen Pallasbüste, die er sich zum Thron erkor. Seine Augen träumen trunken wie Dämonen traumversunken,
Mir zu Füßen hingesunken droht sein Schatten tot empor.
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