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 disasterFollowed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf "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 linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking, "Nevermore."Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'erShe shall press, ah, nevermore!Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hathSent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, O 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 enchantedOn 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 adoreTell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name LenoreClasp 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 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 sittingOn 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 floorShall be lifted... nevermore!//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////O Corvo, Edgar Allan Poe - Traduzido por Fernando Pessoa, ritmicamente conforme o original.Numa meia-noite agreste, quando eu lia, lento e triste,Vagos, curiosos tomos de ciencias ancestrais,E ja quase adormecia, ouvi o que pareciaO som de alguem que batia levemente a meus umbrais."Uma