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 former years;
    I'll drive the mad wheel faster;
Slave will I be but to the shears;
    The pen shall know its master!

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

Depression

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

To My Misery

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

Want And I

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

In The Factory

Morris Rosenfeld, Simple Poetry

English

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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

The Pale Operator

If but with my pen I could draw him,
    With terror you'd look in his face;
For he, since the first day I saw him,
    Has sat there and sewed in his place.

Years pass in procession unending,
    And ever the pale one is seen,
As over his work he sits bending,
    And fights with the soulless machine.

I feel, as I gaze at each feature,
    Perspiring and grimy and wan,
It is not the strength of the creature,--
    The will only, urges him on.

And ever the sweat-drops are flowing,
    They fall o'er his thin cheek in streams,
They water the stuff he is sewing,
    And soak themselves into the seams.

How long shall the wheel yet, I pray you,
    Be chased by the pale artisan?
And what shall the ending be, say you?
    Reso...

Morris Rosenfeld

In The Factory

Oh, here in the shop the machines roar so wildly,
That oft, unaware that I am, or have been,
I sink and am lost in the terrible tumult;
And void is my soul... I am but a machine.
I work and I work and I work, never ceasing;
Create and create things from morning till e'en;
For what?--and for whom--Oh, I know not! Oh, ask not!
Who ever has heard of a conscious machine?

No, here is no feeling, no thought and no reason;
This life-crushing labor has ever supprest
The noblest and finest, the truest and richest,
The deepest, the highest and humanly best.
The seconds, the minutes, they pass out forever,
They vanish, swift fleeting like straws in a gale.
I drive the wheel madly as tho' to o'ertake them,--
Give chase without wisdom, or wit, or avail.

The clo...

Morris Rosenfeld

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

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

Song of the Sewing-Machine

I'm the Iron Needle-Woman!
    Wrought of sterner stuff than clay;
And, unlike the drudges human,
    Never weary night or day;
Never shedding tears of sorrow,
    Never mourning friends untrue,
Never caring for the morrow,
    Never begging work to do.

Poverty brings no disaster!
    Merrily I glide along,
For no thankless, sordid master,
    Ever seeks to do me wrong:
No extortioners oppress me,
    No insulting words I dread--
I've no children to distress me
    With unceasing cries for bread.

I'm of hardy form and feature,
    For endurance framed aright;
I'm not pale misfortune's creature,
    Doomed life's battle here to fight:
Mine's a song of cheerful measure,
    And no under-currents flow
To destroy the throb...

George Pope Morris