Fantasy poetry, American -- Translations into French; Poe, Edgar Allan, 1809-1849 -- Translations into French; Ravens -- Poetry
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."
_Alors cet oiseau d'ébène induisant ma triste imagination au sourire,
par le grave et sévère décorum de la contenance qu'il eut: «Quoique
ta crête soit chue et rase, non! dis-je, tu n'es pas pour sûr un
poltron, spectral, lugubre et ancien Corbeau, errant loin du rivage
de Nuit--dis-moi quel est ton nom seigneurial au rivage plutonien de
Nuit.» Le Corbeau dit: «Jamais plus.»_
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 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 a name as "Nevermore."
_Je m'émerveillai fort d'entendre ce disgracieux volatile s'énoncer
aussi clairement, quoique sa réponse n'eût que peu de sens et peu
d'à-propos; car on ne peut s'empêcher de convenir que nul homme vivant
n'eût encore l'heur de voir un oiseau au-dessus de la porte de sa
chambre--un oiseau ou toute autre bête sur le buste sculpté, au-dessus
de la porte de sa chambre, avec un nom tel que: «Jamais plus.»_
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that 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."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
_Mais le Corbeau, perché solitairement sur ce buste placide, parla
ce seul mot comme si, son âme, en ce seul mot, il la répandait. Je ne
proférai donc rien de plus: il n'agita donc pas de plume--jusqu'à ce
que je fis à peine davantage que marmotter «D'autres amis déjà ont
pris leur vol--demain il me laissera comme mes Espérances déjà ont
pris leur vol.» Alors l'oiseau dit: «Jamais plus.»_
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 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.'"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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