Morris Rosenfeld

“ You see, it is Sfēré, 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! ”

“ 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? ”

“ And the meadow blossoms blow,
Once again through hills and dales
Rise the songs of nightingales.
Wheresoe’er on field or hillside
With her paint-brush Spring is seen,—
In the valley, by the rillside,
All the earth is decked with green.
Once again the sun beguiles
Moves the drowsy world to smiles.
See! the sun, with mother-kiss
Wakes her child to joy and bliss. ”

“ 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.
The rivulet sparkles with heavenly light,
The wavelets they glisten, with diamonds bedight. ”

“ May hardly the cause of their fading have been.
Poor soul, she has wept so, she scarcely can see.
A skeleton infant she holds on her knee.
It tugs at her breast, and it whimpers and sleeps,
But soon at her cry it awakens and weeps—
“Two cents, my good woman, three candles will buy,
As bright as their flame be my star in the sky!”
Tho’ few are her wares, and her basket is small,
She earns her own living by these, when at all. ”

“ Yet ever, tho’ faintly, she calls out anew:
“Oh buy but two candles, good women, but two!”
In Hester Street stands on the pavement of stone
A small, orphaned basket, forsaken, alone.
Beside it is sitting a corpse, cold and stark:
The seller of candles—will nobody mark?
No, none of the passers have noticed her yet.
The rich ones, on feasting are busily set,
And such as are pious, you well may believe,
Have no time to spare on the gay Sabbath eve. ”

“ The dream-flow’rs of hope and of freedom, perchance,
The rich are so merrily reaping;—
In Love’s eyes I’d fancy the joy of romance;
No more would I dream Love is weeping.
Or say you the world is a banquet, a ball,
Where everyone goes who is able? ”

“ I strive—oh, how vainly I strive to be clean!
All day I am covered with grime and with dirt.
You’d laugh,—but I long for a spotless white shirt!
For life that is noble, ’tis needful, I ween,
To work as a man should; and still be as clean. ”

“ The earth will soon be cold and bare,
Her robe of glory falling;
Already to the mourner’s prayer
The last wild bird is calling.
He sings so sweetly and so sad
A song of friends who parted,
That even if it find you glad,
It leaves you broken hearted.
The copses shudder in the breeze,
Some dream-known terror fearing.
Awake! O great and little trees!
The Judgment-day is nearing!
O men! O trees in copses cold!
Beware the rising weather!
Or late or soon, both young and old
Shall strew the ground together... .
[*Tkiye: first blast of the Ram’s horn.] ”

“ She hears mother’s crying—but where is the good
I pray you, how long will she sit there and cry
Her candles so feebly to all that pass by?
How long will it be, do you think, ere her breath
Gives out in the horrible struggle with Death?
How long will this frail one in mother-love strong,
Give suck to the babe at her breast? Oh, how long?
The child mother’s tears used to swallow before,
But mother’s eyes, nowadays, shed them no more. ”

“ The blast of the New Year is blown on the horn,
All go; by the Ark I am standing forlorn,
And thinking: “How shall it be with us anon,
When closed is the temple, and ev’ryone gone!”
[* Ne’ilah, (Hebrew) Conclusion, concluding prayer.]
Exit Holiday
Farewell to the feast-day! the pray’r book is stained
With tears; of the booth scarce a trace has remained;
The lime branch is withered, the osiers are dying,
And pale as a corpse the fair palm-frond is lying ”

“ To labor and labor and still labor on.
The tick of the clock is the Boss in his anger!
The face of the clock has the eyes of a foe;
The clock—Oh, I shudder—dost hear how it drives me?
It calls me “Machine!” ”

“ He has but the dry, wither’d Ram’s-horn, the symbol
Of gloom and despondence; the rest all are mute.
He laughs, or he breaks into song, but soon after,
Tho’ fain would he take in man’s gladness a part,
One hears, low resounding athwart the gay laughter,
The Suppliant’s psalm, and it pierces the heart. ”

“ Atonement Evening Prayer
Atonement Day—evening pray’r—sadness profound.
The soul-lights, so clear once, are dying around.
The reader is spent, and he barely can speak;
The people are faint, e’en the basso is weak. ”

“ The mountains are covered with greenness again,
And perfumed and cool are the bowers.
The sheep frisk about in the flowery vale,
The shepherd and shepherdess pause in the dale,
And these are the holiest hours!...
Delay not, delay not, life passes away!
’Tis summer today, sweet summer today!
Come, throttle your wheel’s grinding power!...
Your worktime is bitter and endless in length ”

“ She trades and she trades, through the good times and slack—
No home and no food, and no cloak to her back.
She’s kithless and kinless—one friend at the most,
And that one is silent: the telegraph post! ”