Comments about Morris Rosenfeld
I have a little boy at home,
A pretty little son;
I think sometimes the world is mine
In him, my only one.
But seldom, seldom do I see
My child in heaven's light;
I find him always fast asleep...
I see him but at night.
Ere dawn my labor drives me forth;
'Tis night when I am free;
A stranger am I to my child;
And strange my child to me.
I come in darkness to my home,
With weariness and--pay;
My pallid wife, she waits to tell
The things he learned to say.
How plain and prettily he asked:
'Dear mamma, when's 'Tonight'?
O when ...
No, not from tuning-forks of gold
Take I my key for singing;
From Upper Seats no order bold
Can set my music ringing;
But groans the slave through sense of wrong,
And naught my voice can smother;
As flame leaps up, so leaps my song
For my oppressed brother.