Biography of Morris Rosenfeld
Morris Rosenfeld (Moshe Jacob Alter) (December 28, 1862 in Bokscha in Russian Poland, government of Suwałki – June 22, 1923 in New York) was a Yiddish poet.
His work sheds light on the living circumstances of emigrants from Eastern Europe in New York's tailoring workshops.
He was educated at Boksha, Suwałki, and Warsaw. He worked as a tailor in New York and London and as a diamond cutter in Amsterdam, and settled in New York in 1886, after which he was connected with the editorial staffs of several leading Jewish newspapers. In 1904 he published a weekly entitled Der Ashmedai. In 1905 he was editor of the New Yorker Morgenblatt. He was also the publisher and editor of a quarterly journal of literature (printed in Yiddish) entitled Jewish Annals. He was a delegate to the Fourth Zionist Congress at London in 1900, and gave readings at Harvard University in 1898, the University of Chicago in 1900, and Wellesley and Radcliffe colleges in 1902.
Rosenfeld was the author of Die Glocke (New York, 1888), poems of a revolutionary character; later the author bought and destroyed all obtainable copies of this book. He wrote also Die Blumenkette (ib. 1890) and Das Lieder Buch (ib. 1897;English transl. by Leo Wiener, Songs from the Ghetto, Boston, 1899; German transl. by Berthold Feivel, Berlin, and by E. A. Fishin, Milwaukee, Wis., 1899; Rumanian transl. by M. Rusu, Iaşi, 1899; Polish transl. by J. Feldman, Vienna, 1903; Hungarian transl. by A. Kiss, Budapest; Bohemian transl. by J. Dchlicky, Prague). His poems were published, under the title Gesammelte Lieder, in New York in 1904.
Morris Rosenfeld Poems
I Know Not Why
I lift mine eyes against the sky, The clouds are weeping, so am I; I lift mine eyes again on high, The sun is smiling, so am I.
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;
I have a little boy at home, A pretty little son; I think sometimes the world is mine
When night and silence deep Hold all the world in sleep, As tho' Death claimed the Hour, By some strange witchery
On The Bosom Of The Ocean
THE terrible wind, the dangerous storm, is wrestling with a ship on the ocean ; it is trying to break her, but she in distress cuts through the
I'Ve Often Laughed
I've often laughed and oftener still have wept, A sighing always through my laughter crept, Tears were not far away... What is there to say?
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,-- ...
A Tree In The Ghetto
There stands in th' leafless Ghetto One spare-leaved, ancient tree; Above the Ghetto noises It moans eternally.
Creation Of Man
WHEN the Lord created our wonderful world, He asked nobody's advice, and did as He pleased,
A Tear On The Iron
OH, cold and dark is the shop ! I hold the iron, stand and press ; my heart is weak, I groan and cough, my sick breast scarcely heaves.
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--
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,
The Beggar Family
Within the court, before the judge, There stand six wretched creatures, They're lame and weary, one and all, With pinched and pallid features.
The free canary warbles In leafy forest dell: Who feels what rapture thrills her, And who her joy can tell?
A Tear On The Iron
OH, cold and dark is the shop ! I hold the
iron, stand and press ; my heart is weak, I
groan and cough, my sick breast scarcely heaves.
I groan and cough, and press and think;
my eye grows damp, a tear falls ; the iron is hot,
my little tear, it seethes and seethes, and will not