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.
Authorship:
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
Another version of this text exists in the database.
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
El món té gust de pols
quan ens aturem per morir...
llavors desitgem la rosada,
els honors tenen un sabor sec...
Les banderes batzeguen una faç morent
però el més modest ventall,
mogut per una mà amiga,
refresca com la pluja.
Serà la meva comesa
quan et vingui la set...
de portar-te la rosada
i els bàlsams sagrats.