Poems by Morris Rosenfeld

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Pale-faced is he, as in the door
No, not from tuning-forks of gold
There stands in th' leafless Ghetto
Once again my songs I sing thee,
Atonement Day--evening pray'r--sadness profound.
Not always as you see us now,
All the striving, all the failing,
No rest--not one day in the seven for me?
Farewell to the feast-day! the pray'r book is stained
Work with might and main,
I bend o'er the wheel at my sewing;
I've often laughed and oftener still have wept,
Oh, here in the shop the machines roar so wildly,
Alone in desert dreary,
Written today, and read today,
When night and silence deep
First old Minna, bent and lowly,
I have a little boy at home,
Come, beneath yon verdant branches,
O long the way and short the day,
My tailor's shears I scorned then;
I asked of my Muse, had she any objection
Within the court, before the judge,
The free canary warbles
In Hester Street, hard by a telegraph post,
In the hills' embraces holden,
When the world was first created
Little candles glistening,
The wind is keen, the frost is dread,
May has come from out the showers,
Fair summer is here, glad summer is here!
If but with my pen I could draw him,
Now the last, long rays of sunset
O Misery of mine, no other
A little more, a little less!--
Who's there? who's there? who was it tried
Well, say you the world is a chamber of sleep,
(To a Young Girl)