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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.
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Text Authorship:
- by Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886), no title [author's text checked 1 time 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 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 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.
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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.
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Based on:
- a text in English by Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886), no title
This text was added to the website: 2009-11-19
Line count: 24
Word count: 161