15 yazar 16 başlıq və 29 entry
yenilə | gündəm | top

1 2
oliqopoliya kuba 3 sözlük yazarlarından şüarlar 2 asılılıq yaradan oyunlar 12 modernizm tərcüməçi qəzəb qüvvəsi eldamar dikanka yaxınlığında bir kənddə axşamlar azərbaycandakı həyatın demo olması kuber-pedi 2 1907 jason bourne çörəkarası saçaq pendir tantuni ahmet ümit penitente pontius pilatus 2 maitre gims yazarları düşündürən suallar 4 satıcı mizantrop 8 qara mamba 3 sözlük yazarlarından aforizmlər azərbaycanlılar üçün application ideyaları 4 deep purple 3 nova synteza teksun 2 strawbs far cry 3 2 playlist ian anderson 3 cem adrian 3 hell or high water nailə əliyeva ballda of francis alabadalejo the last of us part 2 too old to rock 'n' roll: too young to die! the jethro tull christmas album crest of a knave erik erikson wikipedia cinayət prosessual məcəlləsi suspense məsləhətli sənədli filmlər yazarlar haqqında başlıq açmağın məntiqi string driven thing yazarların başına gələn maraqlı hadisələr 3 əli mirəliyev kasıb çalğıçı fizikanın təkamülü 2 masturbasiya 6 local uncharted: the lost legacy reveal tirnidus yify the last of us 3 cinayət məcəlləsi mother of mine black hawk down gagma napiri no man's land hotel rwanda təkcə mənmi edirəm deyə düşünülən şeylər 2 4 dekabr 2015 neft daşlarında qəza 2 siyasi aktivist müptezeller yazarların paylaşmaq istədikləri musiqilər sözlükçülərin ən sevdiyi cizgi film personajları homoseksuallığın xəstəlik olmadığı gerçəyi yazarların hal hazırda dinlədikləri musiqilər booky.io favoritus.com sezen aksu 2 azərbaycan iqtisadiyyatı social media manager sosial partlayış

the raven


facebook twitter əjdaha lazımdı   googllalink

    1. edgar allan poenin qotik üslubda şeiri.


    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--
    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 mein of lord or lady, perched
    above my chamber door--
    perched upon my 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 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 the
    placid bust, spoke only
    that one word, as if his 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 tempest 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 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 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 shadow on the floor;
    and my soul from out that shadow that
    lies floating on the floor
    shall be lifted--nevermore!


sən də yaz!