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My first well day, since many ill, I asked to go abroad And take the sunshine in my hands, And see the things in pod A 'blossom just when I went in, To take my chance with pain, Uncertain if myself or he Should prove the strongest one. The summer deepened while we strove. She put some flowers away, And redder cheeked ones in their stead, A fond, illusive way. To cheat herself it seemed she tried, As if before a child To fade. Tomorrow rainbows held, The sepulcher could hide. She dealt a fashion to the nut, She tied the hoods to seeds. She dropped bright scraps of tint about, And left Brazilian threads On every shoulder that she met, Then both her hands of haze Put up, to hide her parting grace From our unfitted eyes. My loss by sickness, was it loss, Or that ethereal gain One earns by measuring the grave, Then measuring the sun?
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Text Authorship:
- by Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886), no title [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Gordon Getty (b. 1933), "My first well day, since many ill" [ soprano and piano ], from The White Election - A Song Cycle for soprano and piano on 32 poems of Emily Dickinson, Part 3 : Almost Peace, no. 17 [sung text checked 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- GER German (Deutsch) (Bertram Kottmann) , copyright © 2017, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Research team for this page: Emily Ezust [Administrator] , Barbara Miller , Bertram Kottmann
This text was added to the website: 2011-01-12
Line count: 28
Word count: 159
Lang war ich krank, dann ging’s bergauf, konnt erstmals aus dem Haus, und nahm die Sonne in den Arm, sah alles treiben aus, erblühn, als ich musst’ wieder rein, zu stellen mich dem Schmerz - und fragte mich, ob er, ob ich diesmal der Stärk’re sei. Wir trugen’s aus, der Sommer schritt - nahm manche Blüte mit - ersetzte sie durch rot’res Blühn - ein spielerisches Mühn - ein Selbstbetrug, wie einem Kind dem sterbenskrank, man bald das Paradies verspricht, als ob’s das Grab vermeiden könnt. Die Reife brachte er der Nuss und Hüllen für den Keim, streut Farbenklecks um Farbenklecks: färbt brasilianisch ein. Auf jede Schulter, die er sah, sank seine Nebelhand, auf dass die Grazie seines Gehns wir - ahnungslos - nicht sehn. Hab durch die Krankheit ich verlorn? War’s himmlischer Gewinn, den d e r verdient, der erst das Grab und dann die Sonn’ ermisst?
About the headline (FAQ)
Text Authorship:
- Translation from English to German (Deutsch) copyright © 2017 by Bertram Kottmann, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you must ask the copyright-holder(s) directly for permission. If you receive no response, you must consider it a refusal.
Bertram Kottmann. Contact: BKottmann (AT) t-online.de
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Based on:
- a text in English by Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886), no title
This text was added to the website: 2017-10-15
Line count: 28
Word count: 141