A Millionaire

A poem by Morris Rosenfeld

No, not from tuning-forks of gold
Take I my key for singing;
From Upper Seats no order bold
Can set my music ringing;
But groans the slave through sense of wrong,
And naught my voice can smother;
As flame leaps up, so leaps my song
For my oppressed brother.

And thus the end comes swift and sure...
Thus life itself must leave me;
For what can these my brothers poor
In compensation give me,
Save tears for ev'ry tear and sigh?--
(For they are rich in anguish).
A millionaire of tears am I,
And mid my millions languish.

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