Le Corbeau, Edgar Allan Poe | Nouvelle Fantastique

Une fois sur le minuit lugubre, pendant que je méditais, faible et fatigué, sur ma précieuse et curieuse volume d'une doctrine oubliée, pendant que je donnais de la tête presque assoupie, soudain il se fit un tapotement comme de... Quelqu'un frappant doucement, frappant à la porte de ma chambre. « J'ai quelques visiteurs, » murmurai-je. « Qui frappe à la porte de ma chambre, ce n'est que cela, et rien de plus. »

Distinctly I remember that it was in the December glacier, and each weeping twig was weaving around it the floor of the reflection of its agony. Hardly I desired the morning. In vain I forced myself to draw a sursis from my books to my sadness, my sadness for my lost Lenore, for the precious and radiant girl that the angels call Lenore and who here we will never name again. And the silky, sad and vague rustle of the curtains for close penetrated me,

filled me with fantastic terror unknown to me until that day, so that finally, to soothe the beating of my heart, I stood up, repeating: "It's a few visitors who request the entrance to my room. A few visitors who requested the entrance to my room. It's the same thing, and nothing more." My soul felt lighter at this moment, so I didn't hesitate any longer. "Sir," I said, "Madam, I beg your pardon.

But the fact is that I was sleeping, and you came knocking so softly. So faintly you came knocking at the door of my room, that I was hardly sure I heard you. And then I opened the big door. The darkness, and nothing more. Scrutinizing deeply these darkness, I was long full of astonishment, of fear, of doubt, dreaming dreams that no mortal has ever dared to dream. But the silence was not disturbed.

and immobility did not give any sign. The only preferred word was a whispered name. "Lénore?" I whispered it. And a echo, in turn, murmured this word. "Lénore?" Entering my room and feeling my whole soul burned, I soon heard a blow a little louder than the first. "Surely," I say, "there is surely something in the jealousy of my window. Let's see what it is and explore this mystery."

Let my heart calm down for a moment and explore this mystery. Oh, it's the wind and nothing more. I then pushed the fly. And with a tumultuous beat of wings entered a majestic body worthy of the old days. He did not make the slightest reverence, he did not stop.

He didn't hesitate for a minute, but, with the mind of a lord or a lady, he perched on top of the door of my room. He perched on a palace bust just above the door of my room. He perched, settled, and nothing more. Then this bird of ebony, by the gravity of its maintenance and the severity of its physiognomy, inducing my sad imagination to smile, « Well, your head, » I said to him,

be without up and without storks you are certainly not a lucid and ancient crow traveler from the banks of the night tell me what is your name lordly at the banks of the plutonian night the crow said cat i was amazed that this volatilous wretch heard the word so easily although his answer had no good sense and did not suit me a great help

We must agree that he was never given to a living man to see a bird above the door of his room, a bird or a beast on a bust sculpted above the door of his room, naming a name such as "never more". But the crow, perched alone on the placid bust, only uttered this unique word, as if in this unique word he spread his whole soul. He did not pronounce anything more, he did not move a feather,

Jusqu'à ce que je me prisse à murmurer faiblement. « D'autres amis, d'autres amis se sont déjà envolés loin de moi, vers le matin. Lui aussi, lui aussi il me quittera comme mes anciennes espérances déjà envolées. » L'oiseau dit alors. « Jamais plus. » Tressaillant au bruit de cette réponse jetée avec tant d'à-propos. « Sans doute, » dis-je, « ce qu'il prononce est tout son bagage de savoir. »

qu'il a pris chez quelques maîtres infortunés que le malheur impitoyable a poursuivi ardemment sans répit jusqu'à ce que ses chansons n'eussent plus qu'un seul refrain jusqu'à ce que le jusqu'à ce que le déprofondisse de son espérance eût pris ce mélancolique refrain jamais jamais plus mais le corbeau induisant encore toute ma triste âme à sourire je roulai tout de suite un siège à coussins en face de l'oiseau et du buste et de la porte alors

Sinking into the velvet, I was applying myself to connect ideas to ideas, seeking what this augural bird of old days, what this sad, disgraceful, sinister, meager and augural bird of old days wanted to make grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow, grow

whose burning eyes burned me now to the bottom of my heart. I was trying to guess that. And even more, my head resting at ease on the velvet of the cushion that caressed the light of the lamp. This violet velvet caressed by the light of the lamp that its head... Oh, never again. Then it seemed to me that the air was thickening, scented by an invisible incense that was swinging seraphims whose steps were shaking the carpet of the room. Fortunate, I cried.

Your god gave you by his angels. He sent you from the Repi. From the Repi and Nepenthes in your memories of Lenore. Drink! Drink this good Nepenthes and forget this lost Lenore. The body says: No more. Prophet! I say: Be of misfortune, bird or demon but always prophet. Whether you are a messenger of the Temptator or whether the storm has simply failed you, shipwrecked.

But still intrepid on this deserted land, bewitched in this lodging by the haunted horror, tell me sincerely, I beg you, does it exist? Does a Bôme of Judée exist here? Say, say, I beg you. The crow says, Never again, oh prophet, I say, being of misfortune, bird or demon, always prophet by this sky stretched over our heads, by this God that both of us adore.

There is this soul, full of pain, if in the distant paradise it could kiss a holy girl named Lenore. Kiss a precious and radiant girl named Lenore. The body says: Never again. May this word be the signal of our separation from birds or demons. I scream as I stand up again. Enter the storm. Return to the shores of the Plutonian night. Do not leave here a single black feather as a memory of the lie that your soul has professed.

Let my loneliness be a violet. Leave this bust above my door. Tear your beak out of my heart and rush your spectrum away from my door. The crow says, I don't have any more. And the immutable crow is still installed, still installed on the pale bust of Pallas, just above the door of my room. And his eyes, his eyes have all the semblance of the eyes of a demon who dreams.

And the light of the lamp rustling on him casts its shadow on the floor, and my soul, out of the circle of this shadow that floats on the floor, will never be able to rise again.