by
Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)
It was not Death, for I stood up
Language: English
It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down --
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos -- crawl --
Nor Fire -- for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool --
And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine --
As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And 'twas like Midnight, some -
When everything that ticked -- has stopped --
And Space stares all around --
Or Grisly frosts -- first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground --
But, most, like Chaos - Stopless -- cool --
Without a Chance, or Spar --
Or even a Report of Land --
To justify -- Despair.
About the headline (FAQ)
Text Authorship:
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, née Carla Gilberta Bruni Tedeschi (b. 1967), "It was not Death, for I stood up" [ sung text checked 1 time]
- by Gordon Getty (b. 1933), "It was not Death, for i stood up" [soprano and piano], from The White Election - A Song Cycle for soprano and piano on 32 poems of Emily Dickinson, Part 2 : So We Must Meet Apart, no. 12. [ sung text checked 1 time]
- by Paul Gibson (b. 1952), "It was not Death", published 2008. [SATB chorus a cappella] [ sung text checked 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , copyright © 2009, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this page: Guy Laffaille
[Guest Editor] This text was added to the website: 2009-11-19
Line count: 24
Word count: 136
Ce n'était pas la Mort, car je me tenais...
Language: French (Français) after the English
Ce n'était pas la Mort, car je me tenais debout,
Et tous les Morts sont allongés --
Ce n'était pas la nuit, car toutes les Cloches
Tiraient leurs langues, pour Midi.
Ce n'était pas le gel, car sur ma Chair
Je sentais des Siroccos -- ramper --
Ni le Feu -- car seuls mes pieds de marbre
Pouvaient garder un Chœur, frais --
Et pourtant, cela y ressemblait, comme elles toutes,
Les Formes que j'ai vues
Rangées en ordre, pour l'Enterrement,
Me rappelant, le mien --
Comme si ma vie avait été rabotée,
Et ajustée à un cadre,
Et ne pouvait plus respirer sans une clé,
Et c'était comme Minuit, un peu --
Quand tout ce qui faisait tic-tac -- s'était arrêté --
Et que l'Espace écarquille les yeux -- tout autour --
Ou que les gels Sinistres -- des premiers matins d'Automne,
Annulent la Terre qui bat --
Mais, surtout, comme le Chaos, -- sans Arrêt -- froid --
Sans une Chance, ou une vergue --
Ou même une Rumeur de la Terre --
Pour justifier -- le Désespoir.
About the headline (FAQ)
Text Authorship:
- Translation from English to French (Français) copyright © 2009 by Guy Laffaille, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
This text was added to the website: 2009-11-19
Line count: 24
Word count: 161
