O Long The Way

O long the way and short the day,
    No light in tower or town,
The waters roar and far the shore--
    My ship, my ship goes down!

'Tis all in vain to strive again,
    My cry the billows drown,
The fight is done, the wind has won--
    My ship, my ship goes down!

Bright sun, adieu! Thou'lt shine anew
    When skies no longer frown,
But I--the deafening billows crash--
    My ship, my ship goes down!

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

Journalism

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

A Millionaire

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

Want And I

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

Measuring the Graves

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.

The Phantom Vessel

Now the last, long rays of sunset
To the tree-tops are ascending,
And the ash-gray evening shadows
Weave themselves around the earth.

On the crest of yonder mountain,
Now are seen from out the distance
Slowly fading crimson traces;
Footprints of the dying day.

Blood-stained banners, torn and tattered,
Hanging in the western corner,
Dip their parched and burning edges
In the cooling ocean wave.

Smoothly roll the crystal wavelets
Through the dusky veils of twilight,
That are trembling down from heaven
O'er the bosom of the sea.

Soft a little wind is blowing
O'er the gently rippling waters--
What they whisper, what they murmur,
Who is wise enough to say?

Broad her snow-white sails outspreading
'Gainst the qui...

Morris Rosenfeld

Depression

All the striving, all the failing,
To the silent Nothing sailing.
Swiftly, swiftly passing by!
For the land of shadows leaving,
Where a wistful hand is weaving
Thy still woof, Eternity!

Gloomy thoughts in me awaken,
And with fear my breast is shaken,
Thinking: O thou black abyss;
All the toil and thrift of life,
All the struggle and the strife,
Shall it come at last to this?

With the grave shall be requited
Good and evil, and united
Ne'er to separate again?
What the light hath parted purely,
Shall the darkness join more surely?--
Was the vict'ry won in vain?

O mute and infinite extension,
O time beyond our comprehension,
Shall thought and deed ungarnered fall?
Ev'rything dost take and slay,
Ev'rything dost bear a...

Morris Rosenfeld

So Long

The dawn grows red in the eastern sky,
    (Long, so long is the day,)
And I lean from my lattice and sigh and sigh,
As I watch the night fog creeping by
    And vanish over the bay.

The thrush soars up, over green clad hills,
    (The day is long, so long;)
Like liquid silver his music spills,
And ever it quivers, and runs, and trills
    In a glad sweet burst of song.

Under my window there blooms a rose,
    (How long a day can be.)
And I lean and whisper what no soul knows
Of my heart's sorrows and secret woes,
    And the red rose sighs, 'Ah me!'

A ship sails into the waiting bay,
    (The day is long, alack,)
But what would that matter to me, I pray
If the ship that sailed out yesterday
    Should never more come back.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

September Melodies

I


The summer is over!
'Tis windy and chilly.
The flowers are dead in the dale.
All beauty has faded,
The rose and the lily
In death-sleep lie withered and pale.

Now hurries the stormwind
A mournful procession
Of leaves and dead flowers along,
Now murmurs the forest
Its dying confession,
And hushed is the holiest song.

Their "prayers of departure"
The wild birds are singing,
They fly to the wide stormy main.
Oh tell me, ye loved ones,
Whereto are ye winging?
Oh answer: when come ye again?

Oh hark to the wailing
For joys that have vanished!
The answer is heavy with pain:
Alas! We know only
That hence we are banished--
But God knows of coming again!


II


The Tkiy...

Morris Rosenfeld

Night And Morning.

The winds are piping loud to-night,
And the waves roll strong and high;
God pity the watchful mariner
Who toils 'neath yonder sky!

I saw the vessel speed away,
With a free, majestic sweep,
At evening as the sun went down
To his palace in the deep.

An aged crone sat on the beach,
And, pointing to the ship,
"She'll never return again," she said,
With a scorn upon her lip.

            -    -    -

The morning rose tempestuous,
The winds blew to the shore,
There were corpses on the sands that morn,
But the ship came nevermore!

Charles Sangster

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