O Corvo - Edgar Allan Poe
Autor: Roseli Colaneri | Publicado: 2015-12-31T15:41:00-08:00




Art by : * Rene Magritte *, 1948





Goodbye 2015

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&nbsp;O CORVO - &nbsp; &nbsp;* Edgar Allan Poe*

&nbsp;com tradução de *Fernando Pessoa*



Numa meia-noite agreste, quando eu lia, lento e triste,Vagos, curiosos tomos de ciências ancestrais,E já quase adormecia, ouvi o que pareciaO som de algúem que batia levemente a meus umbrais."Uma visita", eu me disse, "está batendo a meus umbrais.É só isto, e nada mais."Ah, que bem disso me lembro! Era no frio dezembro,E o fogo, morrendo negro, urdia sombras desiguais.Como eu qu'ria a madrugada, toda a noite aos livros dadaP'ra esquecer (em vão!) a amada, hoje entre hostes celestiais -Essa cujo nome sabem as hostes celestiais,Mas sem nome aqui jamais!Como, a tremer frio e frouxo, cada reposteiro roxoMe incutia, urdia estranhos terrores nunca antes tais!Mas, a mim mesmo infundido força, eu ia repetindo,"É uma visita pedindo entrada aqui em meus umbrais;Uma visita tardia pede entrada em meus umbrais.É só isto, e nada mais".E, mais forte num instante, já nem tardo ou hesitante,"Senhor", eu disse, "ou senhora, decerto me desculpais;Mas eu ia adormecendo, quando viestes batendo,Tão levemente batendo, batendo por meus umbrais,Que mal ouvi..." E abri largos, franqueando-os, meus umbrais.Noite, noite e nada mais.A treva enorme fitando, fiquei perdido receando,Dúbio e tais sonhos sonhando que os ninguém sonhou iguais.Mas a noite era infinita, a paz profunda e maldita,E a única palavra dita foi um nome cheio de ais -Eu o disse, o nome dela, e o eco disse aos meus ais.Isso só e nada mais.Para dentro então volvendo, toda a alma em mim ardendo,Não tardou que ouvisse novo som batendo mais e mais."Por certo", disse eu, "aquela bulha é na minha janela.Vamos ver o que está nela, e o que são estes sinais."Meu coração se distraía pesquisando estes sinais."É o vento, e nada mais."Abri então a vidraça, e eis que, com muita negaça,Entrou grave e nobre um corvo dos bons tempos ancestrais.Não fez nenhum cumprimento, não parou nem um momento,Mas com ar solene e lento pousou sobre os meus umbrais,Num alvo busto de Atena que há por sobre meus umbrais,Foi, pousou, e nada mais.E esta ave estranha e escura fez sorrir minha amarguraCom o solene decoro de seus ares rituais."Tens o aspecto tosquiado", disse eu, "mas de nobre e ousado,Ó velho corvo emigrado lá das trevas infernais!Dize-me qual o teu nome lá nas trevas infernais."Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais".Pasmei de ouvir este raro pássaro falar tão claro,Inda que pouco sentido tivessem palavras tais.Mas deve ser concedido que ninguém terá havidoQue uma ave tenha tido pousada nos meus umbrais,Ave ou bicho sobre o busto que há por sobre seus umbrais,Com o nome "Nunca mais".Mas o corvo, sobre o busto, nada mais dissera, augusto,Que essa frase, qual se nela a alma lhe ficasse em ais.Nem mais voz nem movimento fez, e eu, em meu pensamentoPerdido, murmurei lento, "Amigo, sonhos - mortaisTodos - todos já se foram. Amanhã também te vais".Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais".A alma súbito movida por frase tão bem cabida,"Por certo", disse eu, "são estas vozes usuais,Aprendeu-as de algum dono, que a desgraça e o abandonoSeguiram até que o entono da alma se quebrou em ais,E o bordão de desesp'rança de seu canto cheio de aisEra este "Nunca mais".Mas, fazendo inda a ave escura sorrir a minha amargura,Sentei-me defronte dela, do alvo busto e meus umbrais;E, enterrado na cadeira, pensei de muita maneiraQue qu'ria esta ave agoureia dos maus tempos ancestrais,Esta ave negra e agoureira dos maus tempos ancestrais,Com aquele "Nunca mais".Comigo isto discorrendo, mas nem sílaba dizendoÀ ave que na minha alma cravava os olhos fatais,Isto e mais ia cismando, a cabeça reclinandoNo veludo onde a luz punha vagas sobras desiguais,Naquele veludo onde ela, entre as sobras desiguais,Reclinar-se-á nunca mais!Fez-se então o ar mais denso, como cheio dum incensoQue anjos dessem, cujos leves passos soam musicais."Maldito!", a mim disse, "deu-te Deus, por anjos concedeu-teO esquecimento; valeu-te. Toma-o, esquece, com teus ais,O nome da que não esqueces, e que faz esses teus ais!"Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais"."Profeta", disse eu, "profeta - ou demônio ou ave preta!Fosse diabo ou tempestade quem te trouxe a meus umbrais,A este luto e este degredo, a esta noite e este segredo,A esta casa de ância e medo, dize a esta alma a quem atraisSe há um bálsamo longínquo para esta alma a quem atrais!Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais"."Profeta", disse eu, "profeta - ou demônio ou ave preta!Pelo Deus ante quem ambos somos fracos e mortais.Dize a esta alma entristecida se no Éden de outra vidaVerá essa hoje perdida entre hostes celestiais,Essa cujo nome sabem as hostes celestiais!"Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais"."Que esse grito nos aparte, ave ou diabo!", eu disse. "Parte!Torna á noite e à tempestade! Torna às trevas infernais!Não deixes pena que ateste a mentira que disseste!Minha solidão me reste! Tira-te de meus umbrais!Tira o vulto de meu peito e a sombra de meus umbrais!"Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais".E o corvo, na noite infinda, está ainda, está aindaNo alvo busto de Atena que há por sobre os meus umbrais.Seu olhar tem a medonha cor de um demônio que sonha,E a luz lança-lhe a tristonha sombra no chão há mais e mais,


Libertar-se-á... nunca mais!











The Raven


BY Edgard Allan Poe



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 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—

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Only this and nothing more.”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Nameless&nbsp;here&nbsp;for evermore.



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;This it is and nothing more.”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 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;—

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Darkness there and nothing more.



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Merely this and nothing more.



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;’Tis the wind and nothing more!”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 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;

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;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!”

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With such name as “Nevermore.”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 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.

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow&nbsp;he&nbsp;will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Then the bird said “Nevermore.”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 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,

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She&nbsp;shall press, ah, nevermore!



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is&nbsp;there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “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—

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “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!

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 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!”

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting,&nbsp;still&nbsp;is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 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

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shall be lifted—nevermore!