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The world feels dusty, when we stop to die... We want the dew then Honors taste dry... Flags vex a dying face But the least fan stirred by a friend's hand Cools like the rain Mine be the ministry when thy thirst comes... Dews of thyself to fetch and holy balms.
About the headline (FAQ)
This version was published many times, including in the Atlantic Monthly (Volume 143, 1929), before the more authoritative versions came out with the more characteristic punctuation. There are also a few changes to the words in the last stanza. See below.
- by Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886), no title, appears in Further poems of Emily Dickinson [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 Aaron Copland (1900 - 1990), "The world feels dusty", 1949-50, published 1951 [mezzo-soprano, piano], from Twelve Poems of Emily Dickinson, no. 4 [ sung text checked 1 time]
Set in a modified version by .
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- CAT Catalan (Català) (Salvador Pila) , "El món té gust de pols", copyright © 2016, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- CHI Chinese (中文) (Yen-Chiang Che) , "這世界感到灰黯", copyright © 2009, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , "Le monde se sent poussiéreux", copyright © 2008, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- GER German (Deutsch) (Bertram Kottmann) , copyright © 2011, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- ITA Italian (Italiano) (Ferdinando Albeggiani) , copyright © 2010, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 12
Word count: 51
Le monde se sent poussiéreux Quand nous nous arrêtons pour mourir Nous voulons de la rosée Les honneurs ont un goût sec. Les drapeaux ennuient un visage mourant Mais le moindre éventail Agité par la main d'un ami Rafraîchit comme la pluie. À moi est la tâche Quand viendra la soif De chercher pour toi les rosées Et les baumes sacrés.
- Translation from English to French (Français) copyright © 2008 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.
- a text in English by Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886), no title, appears in Further poems of Emily Dickinson
This text was added to the website: 2008-11-09
Line count: 12
Word count: 61