A poem by Morris Rosenfeld

(To a Young Girl)

Say whither, whither, pretty one?
The hour is young at present!
How hushed is all the world around!
Ere dawn--the streets hold not a sound.
O whither, whither do you run?
Sleep at this hour is pleasant.
The flowers are dreaming, dewy-wet;
The bird-nests they are silent yet.
Where to, before the rising sun
The world her light is giving?

"To earn a living."

O whither, whither, pretty child,
So late at night a-strolling?
Alone--with darkness round you curled?
All rests!--and sleeping is the world.
Where drives you now the wind so wild?
The midnight bells are tolling!
Day hath not warmed you with her light;
What aid can'st hope then from the night?
Night's deaf and blind!--Oh whither, child,
Light-minded fancies weaving?

"To earn a living."

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