El cuervo E-Book

Edgar Allan Poe

• Herausgeber: Tregolam
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Spanisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

El Cuervo, es un largo poema escrito por Edgar Allan Poe que fue publicado en 1845. Una pequeña historia misteriosa que encierra muchos más mensajes de los que parece a simple vista. Esta edición bilingüe, contiene una fiel traducción del mismo. En ella descubrirá la pureza en el lenguaje de dicho autor, el cual, revive gracias a que el trabajo se ha efectuado con el máximo rigor y precisión. Lo que hace de este libro un perfecto apoyo para todo aquel que quiera adentrarse en el idioma inglés y viceversa.

Leseprobe

El Cuervo

Edgar Allan Poe

© El cuervo

© Edgar Allan Poe

ISBN: 978-84-17564-84-1

Diseño de portada: Tregolam

1ª edición: 2019

Reservados todos los derechos. No se permite la reproducción total o

parcial de esta obra, ni su incorporación a un sistema informático, ni

su transmisión en cualquier forma o por cualquier medio (electrónico,

mecánico, fotocopia, grabación u otros) sin autorización previa y por

escrito de los titulares del copyright. La infracción de dichos derechos

puede constituir un delito contra la propiedad intelectual.

EL CUERVO – EDGAR ALLAN POE

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, distinctly 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 purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’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 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 wide 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 stillness 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—