Craven congratulations for your elevation. We needed no official affirmation of your value as we see it so often. In celebration The Raven allegedly written here in Hull Mass. is forthwith presented.
The Raven
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 mortals 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 something 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, when, 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 a minute 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 the 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 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 name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour
Nothing farther 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."
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 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 sinking, 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 core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee, by these angels he hath sent thee
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, tell 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 evil! 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 maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that 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 has spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 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 shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted... nevermore!
Bear with me as a token of my gratitude to Francis I'd like to supply the same en Francais.
Le Corbeau
Edgar Allan Poe
(French translation by Charles Baudelaire)
Une fois, sur le minuit lugubre, pendant que je méditais,
faible et fatigué, sur maint précieux et curieux volume
d'une doctrine oubliée, pendant que je donnais de la tête,
presque assoupi, soudain il se fit un tapotement, comme de
quelqu'un frappant doucement, frappant à la porte de ma
chambre. "C'est quelque visiteur, - murmurai-je, - qui frappe
à la porte de ma chambre; ce n'est que cela et rien de plus."
Ah! distinctement je me souviens que c'était dans le glacial
décembre, et chaque tison brodait à son tour le plancher du
reflet de son agonie. Ardemment je désirais le matin; en vain
m'étais-je efforcé de tirer de mes livres un sursis à ma tristesse,
ma tristesse pour ma Lénore perdue, pour la précieuse et
rayonnante fille que les anges nomment Lénore, - et qu'ici on
ne nommera jamais plus.
Et le soyeux, triste et vague bruissement des rideaux pourprés
me pénétrait, me remplissait de terreurs fantastiques,
inconnues pour moi jusqu'à ce jour; si bien qu'enfin pour
apaiser le battement de mon coeur, je me dressai, répétant:
"C'est quelque visiteur attardé sollicitant l'entrée à la porte de
ma chambre; - c'est cela même, et rien de plus."
Mon âme en ce moment se sentit plus forte. N'hésitant donc
pas plus longtemps: "Monsieur, dis-je, ou madame, en
vérité, j'implore votre pardon; mais le fait est que je
sommeillais et vous êtes venu frapper si doucement, si
faiblement vous êtes venu frapper à la porte de ma chambre,
qu'à peine étais-je certain de vous avoir entendu." Et alors
j'ouvris la porte toute grande; - les ténèbres, et rien de plus.
Scrutant profondément ces ténèbres, je me tins longtemps
plein d'étonnement, de crainte, de doute, rêvant des rêves
qu'aucun mortel n'a jamais osé rêver; mais le silence ne fut
pas troublé, et l'immobilité ne donna aucun signe, et le seul
mot proféré fut un nom chuchoté: "Lénore!" - C'était moi
qui le chuchotais, et un écho à son tour murmura ce mot:
"Lénore!" Purement cela, et rien de plus.
Rentrant dans ma chambre, et sentant en moi toute mon
âme incendiée, j'entendis bientôt un coup un peu plus fort
que le premier. "Sûrement, - dis-je, - sûrement, il y a quelque
chose aux jalousies de ma fenêtre; voyons donc ce que c'est,
et explorons ce mystère. Laissons mon coeur se calmer un
instant, et explorons ce mystère; - c'est le vent, et rien de plus."
Je poussai alors le volet, et, avec un tumultueux battement
d'ailes, entra un majestueux corbeau digne des anciens jours.
Il ne fit pas la moindre révérence, il ne s'arrêta pas, il n'hésita
pas une minute; mais avec la mine d'un lord ou d'une lady, il
se percha au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre; il se percha
sur un buste de Pallas juste au-dessus de la porte de ma
chambre; - il se percha, s'installa, et rien de plus.
Alors, cet oiseau d'ébène, par la gravité de son maintien et
la sévérité de sa physionomie, induisant ma triste imagination
à sourire: "Bien que ta tête, - lui dis-je, - soit sans huppe et
sans cimier, tu n'es certes pas un poltron, lugubre et ancien
corbeau, voyageur parti des rivages de la nuit. Dis-moi quel
est ton nom seigneurial aux rivages de la nuit plutonienne!"
Le corbeau dit: "Jamais plus!"
Je fus émerveillé que ce disgracieux volatile entendît si
facilement la parole, bien que sa réponse n'eût pas une bien
grand sens et ne me fût pas d'un grand secours; car nous
devons convenir que jamais il ne fut donné à un homme
vivant de voir un oiseau au-dessus de la porte de sa chambre,
un oiseau ou une bête sur un buste sculpté au-dessus de la
porte de sa chambre, se nommant d'un nom tel que
- Jamais plus!
Mais le corbeau, perché solitaitrement sur le buste placide, ne
proféra que ce mot unique, comme si
dans ce mot unique il répandait toute son âme. Il ne
prononça rien de plus; il ne remua pas une plume, -
jusqu'à ce que je me prisse à murmurer faiblement:
"D'autres amis se sont déjà envolés loin de moi; vers
le matin, lui aussi, il me quittera comme mes anciennes
espérances déjà envolées." L'oiseau dit alors:
"Jamais plus!"
Tressaillant au bruit de cette réponse jetée avec
tant d'à-propos: Sans doute, - dis-je, - ce qu'il
prononce est tout son bagage de savoir, qu'il a pris
chez quelque maître infortuné que le Malheur
impitoyable a poursuivi ardemment, sans répit,
jusqu'à ce que ses chansons n'eussent plus qu'un
seul refrain, jusqu'à ce que le De profundis de son
Espérance eût pris ce mélancolique refrain: "Jamais -
jamais plus!"
Mais le corbeau induisant encore toute ma
triste âme à sourire, je roulai tout de suite un siège
à coussins en face de l'oiseau et du buste et de la
porte; alors, m'enfonçant dans le velours, je
m'appliquai à enchaîner les idées aux idées, cherchant
ce que cet augural oiseau des anciens jours, ce que
ce triste, disgracieux, sinistre, maigre et augural
oiseau des anciens jours voulait faire entendre en
croassant son - Jamais plus!
Je me tenais ainsi, rêvant, conjecturant, mais
n'adressant plus une syllabe à l'oiseau, dont les
yeux ardents me brûlaient maintenant jusqu'au fond
du coeur: je cherchai à deviner cela, et plus encore,
ma tête reposant à l'aise sur le velours du coussin
que caressait la lumière de la lampe, ce velours
violet caressé par la lumière de la lampe que sa tête,
à Elle, ne pressera plus, - ah! jamais plus!
Alors, il me sembla que l'air s'épaississait, parfumé par
un encensoir invisible que balançaient les séraphins
dont les pas frôlaient le tapis de ma chambre.
"Infortuné! - m'écriai-je, - ton Dieu t'a donné par ses
anges, il t'a envoyé du répit, du répit et du népenthès
dans tes ressouvenirs de Lénore! Bois, oh! bois ce
bon népenthès, et oublie cette Lénore perdue!" Le
corbeau dit: "Jamais plus!"
"Prophète! - dis-je, - être de malheur! oiseau ou démon!
mais toujours prophète! que tu sois un envoyé du
Tentateur, ou que la tempête t'ait simplement échoué,
naufragé, mais encore intrépide, sur cette terre déserte,
ensorcelée, dans ce logis par l'Horreur hanté, - dis-moi
sincèrement, je t'en supplie, existe-t-il, existe-t-il ici un
baume de Judée? Dis, dis, je t'en supplie!" Le corbeau
dit: "Jamais plus!"
"Prophète! - dis-je, - être de malheur! oiseau ou démon!
toujours prophète! par ce ciel tendu sur nos têtes, par
ce Dieu que tous deux nous adorons, dis à cette âme
chargée de douleur si, dans le Paradis lointain, elle
pourra embrasser une fille sainte que les anges nomment
Lénore, enbrasser une précieuse et rayonnante fille que
les anges nomment Lénore." Le corbeau dit: "Jamais plus!"
"Que cette parole soit le signal de notre séparation,
oiseau ou démon! - hurlai-je en me redressan. - Rentre
dans la tempête, retourne au rivage de la nuit plutonienne;
ne laisse pas ici une seule plume noire comme souvenir
du mensonge que ton âme a proféré; laisse ma solitude
inviolée; quitte ce buste au-dessus de maporte; arrache
ton bec de mon coeur et précipite ton spectre loin de ma
porte!" Le corbeau dit: "Jamais plus!"
Et le corbeau, immuable, est toujours installé sur le buste
pâle de Pallas, juste au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre;
et ses yeux ont toute la semblance des yeux d'un démon
qui rêve; et la lumière de la lampe, en ruisselant sur lui,
projette son ombre sur le plancher; et mon âme, hors du
cercle de cette ombre qui gît flottante sur le plancher, ne
pourra plus s'élever, - jamais plus!
-- Edgar Allan Poe. Le Corbeau.
French translation by Charles Baudelaire
Heh! Heh! would Edgar(Allen) be something akin to a sop to cerebus, Bob?
Incidentally, I loved the French translation.
Many of our listeners may not be aware that A2K was born out of the womb of The Raven's Realm, but it is the official child that has grown to be a man.
Here's an interesting item, listeners:
Startling Trend for Bright H.S. Students
The brightest high school students are skipping their high school classes. No, they're not playing hooky. They're taking classes at local colleges instead. According to two new studies released by the National Center for Education Statistics, fully 57 percent of U.S. colleges and universities had high school students enrolled in college courses in the 2002-03 school year, reports The Associated Press. One in every 20 high school students did this for a total of about 813,000 students. What about the secondary schools in your country, folks?
and, a health item:
It seems that aspirin is once again in favor with those who test stuff. Experimentalists now declare that four aspirin a day is a SAFER way to thin the blood as opposed to warfin products.(blood thinners)
Francis, a perfect lead in to the following song:
[VAN BUREN]
You've gotta have heart
All you really need is heart
When the odds are sayin' you'll never win
That's when the grin should start
You've gotta have hope
Mustn't sit around and mope
Nothin's half as bad as it may appear
Wait'll next year and hope
When your luck is battin' zero
Get your chin up off the floor
Mister you can be a hero
You can open any door, there's nothin' to it but to do it
You've gotta have heart
Miles 'n miles n' miles of heart
Oh, it's fine to be a genius of course
But keep that old horse
Before the cart
First you've gotta have heart.
That, listeners, was from the musical Damn Yankee.
...and another from "Damn Yankees!"
Whatever Lola wants
Lola gets
And little man, little Lola wants you
Amke up your mind to have no regrets
Recline yourself, resign yourself, you're through
I always get what I aim for
And your heart'n soul is what I came for
Whatever Lola wants
Lola gets,
Take off your coat
Don't you know you can't win?
You're no exception to the rule,
I'm irresistible, you fool, give in!...Give in!...Give in!
Hello, Joe
It's me
He hits so far
-hold on-that's you
Aaah-haaaaaa
Poo poo pa doop
Peek-a-boo
Yoo-hoo
I always get what I aim for
And you heart'n soul is what I came for
...Lola wants
...Lola gets
...You'll never win
I'm irresistible, you fool,
Give in...Give in...Give in.
Well, George, we all know thee to be a Yankee, don't we now. Who would ever believe that Mass folks are baseball buffs.
Would you believe, listeners, that I, too, followed the boys of summer at one time? And I was soooooo disappointed to learn that The Masters has been delayed due to lightning, although I do appreciate Tiger Woods.
Hmmm. Here's a question for McTag.
Didn't golf originate in Scotland?
Yankee
(1) to a foreigner, an American;
(2) to a Southerner, a Northerner;
(3) to a Northerner, a New Englander;
(4) to a New Englander, a Vermonter;
(5) to a Vermonter, someone who eats apple pie for breakfast.
...and to a Red Sox fan, a !@#$%^&*()_+
For the baseball fans:
Jovial Giant squashed between
Greatness and an empty chidlhood;
Juxtaposed in time and play.
Mirthmaker,
Charmer,
Crowd-pleaser,
Lover,
King.
A crown of gold
A golden crown
A golden statue
A statue of gold.
We
Toast you with gauntlets of gold
And crown you with our passion.
We
Celebrate your proud head
Tipped upward and framed by a golden sun.
We
Chill in your stretching shadow
Which blocks the sun.
Can you remember
All the autographs inked in hysteria?
Or
The pennants
Nailed
On flagpoles atop the stadium roof?
Nailed
By the bludgeoning power of your power.
The wind makes those flags
Dance in the sky,
And their sound is the sound
Of seagulls-
Returning home to dine.
The Babe by Anonymous
Going on strike? Love it, Francis. So, Rugby is another name for football, then. Not too different from us Yanks.
Perhaps we can lure John of Virginia back with a reference to Rugby Road and Vinegar Hill. For those of you who do not know the reference, it's a section of Charlottesville, Va. Panz attended UVA at one time, as well.
Now that I've shown you a rare serious moment let me try to lighten the mood. Here's a different kind of scene you might experience out west.
A woman from New York was driving through a
remote part of Arizona when her car broke down.
An American Indian on horseback came along and
offered her a ride to a nearby town. She climbed up
behind him on the horse and they rode off.
The ride was uneventful, except that every few minutes
the Indian would let out a "Ye-e-e-e-ha-a-a-a" so loud
that it echoed from the surrounding hills.
When they arrived in town, he let her off at the local
service station, yelled one final "Ye-e-e-e ha-a-a-a!"
and rode off.
"What did you do to get that Indian so excited?" asked
the service station attendant
"Nothing," the woman said. "I merely sat behind him
on the horse, put my arms around his waist, and held
onto the saddle horn so I wouldn't fall off."
"Lady," the attendant said, "Indians don't use saddles..."
Well, whatever you be, you be funny, George. 
