A Millionaire

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.

Morris Rosenfeld

Morris Rosenfeld, born on December 28, 1862, and deceased on June 22, 1923, was a Yiddish poet known for his poignant and evocative poems depicting the struggles and hardships of Jewish immigrants in New York City's sweatshops in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. His work often highlighted themes of poverty, labor rights, and the immigrant experience. Rosenfeld's poetry remains significant for its historical and cultural commentary, capturing the essence of the Jewish immigrant experience in America.

Morris Rosenfeld

To My Misery

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

The Cemetery Nightingale

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

From Dawn to Dawn

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

The Beggar Family

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

English

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A Millionaire.

Aw wodn't gie a penny piece
To be a millionaire,
For him 'at's little cattle, is
The chap wi' little care.
Jewels may flash o'er achin broos,
An silken robes may hide
Bosoms all fair to look upon,
Whear braikin hearts abide.

Gie me enuff for daily needs,
An just a bit to spend;
Enuff to pay mi honest way,
An help a strugglin friend.
Aw'll be contented it aw keep
The wolf from off mi door;
Aw'll envy nubdy o' ther brass,
An nivver dream awm poor.

Dewdrops 'at shine i'th' early morn
Are diamons for me.
An jewels glint i' ivvery tint,
On th' hill or daan i'th' lea.
My sweet musicianers are burds
At tune their joyous lay,
Araand mi cottage winder,
An nivver strike for pay.

Aw lang for noa fine carriages

John Hartley

Want And I

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,
But no--'twas Want! I could have sworn it.
I heard thy voice, old witch, I know thee!
Avaunt, thou evil hag, beshrew thee!
God's curse! why seekest thou to find me?
Away to all black years behind me!

To torture me was thine endeavor,
My body from my soul to sever,
Of pride and courage to deprive me,
And into beggary to drive me.
Begone, where thousand devils burn--
Begone, nor evermore return!
Begone, most wretched thou of creatures,
And hide for aye thine hateful features!
--Beloved, ope the door in pity!

No friend have I in all the city
Save thee, then open to my call!
The night is bleak, the snowflakes fall.
...

Morris Rosenfeld

The Millionaire.

In the upper circles
    Moves a famous man
Who has had no equal
    Since the world began.
He was once a broker
    Down by the exchange;
He is now a nabob--
    Don't you think it strange?

In his low back office,
    Near the Bowling Green,
With his brother brokers
    He was often seen;--
Shaving and discounting,
    Dabbling in the stocks,
He achieved a fortune
    Of a million ROCKS!'

Next he formed a marriage
    With a lady fair,
And his splendid carriage
    Bowled about THE square,
Where his spacious mansion
    Like a palace stood,
Envied and admired
    By the multitude.

Then he took the tour
    Of the continent,
Bearer of dispatches
    From the President:
A legation but...

George Pope Morris

From Dawn to Dawn

I bend o'er the wheel at my sewing;
I'm spent; and I'm hungry for rest;
No curse on the master bestowing,--
No hell-fires within me are glowing,--
Tho' pain flares its fires in my breast.

I mar the new cloth with my weeping,
And struggle to hold back the tears;
A fever comes over me, sweeping
My veins; and all through me goes creeping
A host of black terrors and fears.

The wounds of the old years ache newly;
The gloom of the shop hems me in;
But six o'clock signals come duly:
O, freedom seems mine again, truly...
Unhindered I haste from the din.

Now home again, ailing and shaking,
With tears that are blinding my eyes,
With bones that are creaking and breaking,
Unjoyful of rest... merely taking
A seat; hoping never to rise.

Morris Rosenfeld

Sfere

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,--
    And can a Jew laugh when the rule is to cry?

You laughed then, you say? 'tis a sound to affright one!
    In Jewish delight, what is worthy the name?
The laugh of a Jew! It is never a right one,
    For laughing and groaning with him are the same.

You thought there was zest in a Jewish existence?
    You deemd that the star of a Jew could be kind?
The Spring calls and beckons with gracious insistence,--
    Jew,--sit down in sackcloth and weep yourself blind!

The garden is green and the woodland rejoices:
    How cool are the breezes, with fragrance how blent!
But Spring calls not you with her thousand swe...

Morris Rosenfeld

Pen and Shears

My tailor's shears I scorned then;
    I strove for something higher:
To edit news--live by the pen--
    The pen that shall not tire!

The pen, that was my humble slave,
    Has now enslaved its master;
And fast as flows its Midas-wave,
    My rebel tears flow faster.

The world I clad once, tailor-hired,
    Whilst I in tatters quaked,
Today, you see me well attired,
    Who lets the world go naked.

What human soul, how'er oppressed,
    Can feel my chained soul's yearning!
A monster woe lies in my breast,
    In voiceless anguish burning.

Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do!
    I'll bear as ne'er I bore it.
My blood!... you sweatshop leeches, you!...
    Now less I'll blame you for it.

I'll stitch as ne'er in fo...

Morris Rosenfeld