POÈMES

Edgar Allen Poe

The Raven
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 some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distincly 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 purpul curtain
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood reeating
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your 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 the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that 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 darkness 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; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, wehn, 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 an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above 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 marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so painly,
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 this 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 of that one word he did out pour.
Nothing firther then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely nore than muttered "Other friends have flown before - 
One 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 unmercyfull Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden burden bore -
Till the dirges of is Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore.'"

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinkind, 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 score;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'ver,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'ver,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hat sent these
Respite - respite and 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 or devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- telle 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 evill - prophet still, if bird or 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 mainden whorm the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant mainden 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 break from out my heart, and take thy 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's 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!



STEPHANE MALLARME

Le tombeau d'Edgard Poe

Tel qu'en lui-même enfin l'éternité le change,
Le poète suscite avec un glaive nu
Son siècle épouvanté de n'avoir pas connu 
Que la mort triomphait dans cette voix étrange!

Eux, comme un vif sursaut d'hydre oyant jadis l'ange
Donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu
Proclamèrent très haut le sortilège bu
Dans le flot sans honneur de quelque noir mélange.

Du sol et de la nue hostiles, ô grief!
Si notre idée avec ne sculpte un bas-relief
Dont la tombe de Poe éblouissante s'orne

Calme bloc ici-bas chu d'un désastre obscur,
Que ce granit du moins montre à jamais saborne
Aux noirs vols du Blasphème épars dans le futur.

GEORGES TRAKL
Traduction de Marc Petit et Jean-Claude Schneider
Chant pour Gaspard Hauser   
A Bessie Loos

Lui en vérité aimait le soleil qui descendait pourpre la colline,
Les chemins de la forêt, le chant de l'oiseau noir
Et la joie de la verdure.

Grave était son séjour dans l'ombre de l'arbre
Et pur son visage.
 dieu parla une douce flamme à son coeur:
Homme!

En silence ses pas trouvèrent la ville au soir;
La sombre plainte de sa bouche:
Je veux être un cavalier.

Mais le suivaient bête et buisson
Maisons et jardins ténébreux d'hommes blancs
Et son assassin le cherchait.

Printemps, été, et beau, l'automne
Du juste, son pas léger
Au long des chambres sombres des rêveurs.
La nuit il restait seul avec son étoile;

Vit que la neige tombait dans les branches nues
Et dans le vestibule ténébreux l'ombre du meurtrier,

D'argent s'affaissa la tête d'un jamais né.

Grodek

Le soir, les forêts automnales résonnent
D'armes de mort, les plaines dorées,
Les lacs bleus, sur lesquels le soleil
Plus lugubre roule, et la nuit enveloppe
Des guerriers mourants, la plaine sauvage
De leurs bouches brisées.
Mais en silence s'amasse sur les pâtures du val
Nuée rouge qu'habite un dieu en courroux
Le sang versé, froid lunaire;
Toutes les routes débouchent dans la pourriture noire.
Sous les rameaux dorés de la nuit et les étoiles
Chancelle l'ombre de la soeur à travers le bois muet
Pour saluer les esprits des héros, les faces qui saignent;
Et doucement vibrent dans les roseaux les flûtes sombres de l'automne.
Ô deuil plus fier! autels d'airain!
La flamme brûlante de l'esprit, une douleur puissante la nourrit aujourd'hui,
Les descendants inengendrés.

Les tournesols

Vous tournesols dorés,
Avec ferveur penchés vers la mort,
Vous soeurs soumises, 
Dans un tel silence
Prend fin l'année d'Hélian,
D'un froid de cimes.

Alors blêmit sous les baisers
Son front ivre,
Au milieu de ces fleurs
Dorées de la tristesse
L'obscurité taciturne
Achemine l'esprit.

Karl Kraus

Blanc hiérarque de la vérité,
Voix de cristal qu'habite le souffle glacé de Dieu,
Mage en courroux
Sous le manteau flamboyant duquel sonne la cuirasse bleue du guerrier.