Morris Rosenfeld

(1862-1923 / Poland)

Morris Rosenfeld Poems

1. A Fellow Slave 4/22/2010
2. Atonement Evening Prayer 4/22/2010
3. Chanukah Thoughts 4/22/2010
4. Depression 4/22/2010
5. Despair 4/22/2010
6. Exit Holiday 4/22/2010
7. In The Garden Of The Dead 4/22/2010
8. In The Wilderness 4/22/2010
9. Pen And Shears 4/22/2010
10. Sephirah 4/22/2010
11. September Melodies 4/22/2010
12. The Beggar Family 4/22/2010
13. The Canary 4/22/2010
14. The Cemetery Nightingale 4/22/2010
15. The Creation Of Man 4/22/2010
16. The Mountain Bride 4/22/2010
17. The Nightingale To The Workman 4/22/2010
18. The Pale Operator 4/22/2010
19. The Phantom Vessel 4/22/2010
20. To My Misery 4/22/2010
21. To The Fortune Seeker 4/22/2010
22. What Is The World? 4/22/2010
23. Whither? 4/22/2010
24. Measuring The Graves 4/22/2010
25. The Jewish May 4/22/2010
26. The Jewish Soldier 4/22/2010
27. The Moon-Prayer 4/22/2010
28. My Youth 4/22/2010
29. The Feast Of Lights 4/22/2010
30. The First Bath Of Ablution 4/22/2010
31. Journalism 4/22/2010
32. For Hire 4/22/2010
33. Again I Sing My Songs 4/22/2010
34. A Millionaire 4/22/2010
35. A Tear On The Iron 4/22/2010
36. Creation Of Man 4/22/2010
37. O Long The Way 4/22/2010
38. A Tree In The Ghetto 4/22/2010
39. From Dawn To Dawn 4/22/2010
40. I'Ve Often Laughed 4/22/2010

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Best Poem of 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 ...

Read the full of In The Factory

A Tree In The Ghetto

There stands in th' leafless Ghetto
One spare-leaved, ancient tree;
Above the Ghetto noises
It moans eternally.

In wonderment it muses,
And murmurs with a sigh:
'Alas! how God-forsaken
And desolate am I!

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