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По Эдгар
«Ворон(переводы)»

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By Edgar Allen Poe's Cat


from Poetry for Cats: The Definitive Anthology of


Distinguished Feline Verse by Henry Beard




On a night quite enchanting,


When the rain was downward slanting,


I awakened to the ranting


Of the man I catch mice for.


Tipsy and a bit unshaven,


In a tone I found quite craven,


Poe was talking to a raven


Perched above the chamber door.


"Raven's very tasty," thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor,


"There is nothing I like more"




Soft upon the rug I treaded,


Calm and careful as I headed


Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallus I deplore.


While the bard and birdie chattered,


I made sure that nothing clattered,


Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered,


As I crossed the corridor;


For his house is crammed with trinkets, curious and weird decor,


Bric-a-brac and junk galore.




Still the raven never fluttered,


Standing stock-still as he uttered,


In a voice that shrieked and sputtered,


His two cents worth -"Nevermore."




While this dirge the birdbrain kept up,


Oh, so silently I crept up,


Then I crouched and quickly leapt up,


Pouncing on the feathered bore.
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