Morris Rosenfeld

Pale-faced is he, as in the door He stands and trembles visibly,-- With diffidence approaches me,

No, not from tuning-forks of gold Take I my key for singing; From Upper Seats no order bold

There stands in th' leafless Ghetto One spare-leaved, ancient tree; Above the Ghetto noises

Once again my songs I sing thee, Now the spell is broken; Brothers, yet again I bring thee

Atonement Day--evening pray'r--sadness profound. The soul-lights, so clear once, are dying around. The reader is spent, and he barely can speak;

Not always as you see us now, Have we been used to weep and sigh, We too have grasped the sword, I trow,

All the striving, all the failing, To the silent Nothing sailing. Swiftly, swiftly passing by!

No rest--not one day in the seven for me? Not one, from the maddening yoke to be free? Not one to escape from the boss on the prowl,

Farewell to the feast-day! the pray'r book is stained With tears; of the booth scarce a trace has remained; The lime branch is withered, the osiers are dying,

Work with might and main, Or with hand and heart, Work with soul and brain,

I bend o'er the wheel at my sewing; I'm spent; and I'm hungry for rest; No curse on the master bestowing,--

I've often laughed and oftener still have wept, A sighing always through my laughter crept, Tears were not far away...

Oh, here in the shop the machines roar so wildly, That oft, unaware that I am, or have been, I sink and am lost in the terrible tumult;

Alone in desert dreary, A bird with folded wings Beholds the waste about her,

Written today, and read today, And stale the news tomorrow!-- Upon the sands I build... I play!

When night and silence deep Hold all the world in sleep, As tho' Death claimed the Hour,

First old Minna, bent and lowly, Eyes with weeping nearly blind; Pessyeh-Tsvaitel, slowly, slowly,

I have a little boy at home, A pretty little son; I think sometimes the world is mine

Come, beneath yon verdant branches, Come, my own, with me! Come, and there my soul will open

O long the way and short the day, No light in tower or town, The waters roar and far the shore--

My tailor's shears I scorned then; I strove for something higher: To edit news--live by the pen--

I The summer is over! 'Tis windy and chilly.

I asked of my Muse, had she any objection To laughing with me,--not a word for reply! You see, it is Sfere, our time for dejection,--

Within the court, before the judge, There stand six wretched creatures, They're lame and weary, one and all,

The free canary warbles In leafy forest dell: Who feels what rapture thrills her,

In Hester Street, hard by a telegraph post, There sits a poor woman as wan as a ghost. Her pale face is shrunk, like the face of the dead,

In the hills' embraces holden, In a valley filled with glooms, Lies a cemetery olden,

When the world was first created By th' all-wise Eternal One, Asked he none for help or counsel,--

Little candles glistening, Telling those are listening Legends manifold,

The wind is keen, the frost is dread, Toward the icy water, By aunt and mother forth is led

May has come from out the showers, Sun and splendor in her train. All the grasses and the flowers

Fair summer is here, glad summer is here! O hark! 'tis to you I am singing: The sun is all gold in a heaven of blue,

If but with my pen I could draw him, With terror you'd look in his face; For he, since the first day I saw him,

Now the last, long rays of sunset To the tree-tops are ascending, And the ash-gray evening shadows

O Misery of mine, no other In faithfulness can match with thee, Thou more than friend, and more than brother,

A little more, a little less!-- O shadow-hunters pitiless, Why then so eager, say!

Who's there? who's there? who was it tried To force the entrance I've denied? An 'twere a friend, I'd gladly borne it,

Well, say you the world is a chamber of sleep, And life but a sleeping and dreaming? Then I too would dream: and would joyously reap

(To a Young Girl) Say whither, whither, pretty one? The hour is young at present!