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По Эдгар
«Ворон(переводы)»

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английском Scholastic Magazine, 1963



RAVIN'S OF PIUTE POET POE

Once, upon a midnight dreary, eerie, scary,


I was wary, I was weary, full of worry, thinking of my lost Lenore,


Of my cheery, airy, faerie, fiery dearie-(Nothing more).


I was napping, when a tapping on the overlapping coping woke me


gapping, leaping, groping… toward the rapping. I went


hopping, leaping… hoping that the rapping on the coping


Was my little lost Lenore.


That on opening the shutter to admit the latter critter, in she'd


flutter from the gutter with her bitter eyes aglitter;


So I opened wide the door, what was there? The dard weir and drear


moor,-or I'm a liar-the dark mire, the drear moor, the


mere door, and nothing more!




Then in stepped a stately Raven, shaven like the bard of Avon; yes,


a rovin' grievin' Raven, seeking haven at my door.


Yes, that shaven, rovin' Raven had been movin' (Get me, Stephen)


for the warm and lovin' haven of my stove and oven door-


Oven door, and nothing more.




Ah, distinctly I remember, every ember that December turned from


amber to burnt umber;


I was burning limber lumber in my chamber that December, and it


left an amber ember.


With a silken, sad uncertain flirtin' of a certain curtain,


That old raven, cold and
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