For Hire

Work with might and main,
    Or with hand and heart,
Work with soul and brain,
    Or with holy art,
Thread, or genius' fire--
    Make a vest, or verse--
If 'tis done for hire,
    It is done the worse.

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

Exit Holiday

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

September Melodies

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

Journalism

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

The Candle Seller

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

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

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

A Fellow Slave

Pale-faced is he, as in the door
He stands and trembles visibly,--
With diffidence approaches me,
And says: "Dear editor,

"Since write you must, in prose or rhyme,
Expose my master's knavery,
Condemn, I pray, the slavery
That dominates our time.

"I labor for a wicked man
Who holds o'er all my being sway,--
Who keeps me harnessed night and day.
Since work I first began.

"No leisure moments do I store,
Yet harsh words only will he speak;
My days are his, from week to week,
But still he cries for more.

"Oh print, I beg you, all I've said,
And ask the world if this be right:
To give the worker wage so slight
That he must want for bread.

"See, I have sinews powerful,
And I've endurance, subtle skill,--
Yet...

Morris Rosenfeld

Despair

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,
His sinister glance and his furious growl,
The cry of the foreman, the smell of the shop,--
To feel for one moment the manacles drop?
--'Tis rest then you want, and you fain would forget?
To rest and oblivion they'll carry you yet.

The flow'rs and the trees will have withered ere long,
The last bird already is ending his song;
And soon will be leafless and shadeless the bow'rs...
I long, oh I long for the perfume of flow'rs!
To feel for a moment ere stripped are the trees,
In meadow lands open, the breath of the breeze.
--You long for the meadow lands breezy and fair?
O, soon enough others will carry you there.

Morris Rosenfeld

The Sale Of The Tools.

        Instrumenta regni.--TACITUS.


Here's a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and Ladies,
They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is;
(Except it be Cabinet-making;--no doubt,
In that delicate service they're rather worn out;
Tho' their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his own will,
Would have bungled away with them joyously still.)
You see they've been pretty well hackt--and alack!
What tool is there job after job will not hack?
Their edge is but dullish it must be confest,
And their temper, like Ellenborough's, none of the best;
But you'll find them good hardworking Tools, upon trying,
Were't but for their brass they are well worth the buying;
They're famous for making blinds, sliders, and screens,

Thomas Moore

The Shoemakers

Ho! workers of the old time styled
The Gentle Craft of Leather!
Young brothers of the ancient guild,
Stand forth once more together!
Call out again your long array,
In the olden merry manner!
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day,
Fling out your blazoned banner!
Rap, rap! upon the well-worn stone
How falls the polished hammer!
Rap, rap! the measured sound has grown
A quick and merry clamor.
Now shape the sole! now deftly curl
The glossy vamp around it,
And bless the while the bright-eyed girl
Whose gentle fingers bound it!
For you, along the Spanish main
A hundred keels are ploughing;
For you, the Indian on the plain
His lasso-coil is throwing;
For you, deep glens with hemlock dark
The woodman's fire is lighting;
For you, upon the o...

John Greenleaf Whittier