Songs of Labor and Other Poems Part 1

Songs of Labor and Other Poems.

by 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-crus.h.i.+ng labor has ever supprest The n.o.blest and finest, the truest and richest, The deepest, the highest and humanly best.

The seconds, the minutes, they pa.s.s 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 clock in the workshop,--it rests not a moment; It points on, and ticks on: Eternity--Time; And once someone told me the clock had a meaning,-- Its pointing and ticking had reason and rhyme.

And this too he told me,--or had I been dreaming,-- The clock wakened life in one, forces unseen, And something besides;... I forget what; Oh, ask not!

I know not, I know not, I am a machine.

At times, when I listen, I hear the clock plainly;-- The reason of old--the old meaning--is gone!

The maddening pendulum urges me forward 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!" and it cries to me "Sew!"

At noon, when about me the wild tumult ceases, And gone is the master, and I sit apart, And dawn in my brain is beginning to glimmer, The wound comes agape at the core of my heart; And tears, bitter tears flow; ay, tears that are scalding; They moisten my dinner--my dry crust of bread; They choke me,--I cannot eat;--no, no, I cannot!

Oh, horrible toil I born of Need and of Dread.

The sweatshop at mid-day--I'll draw you the picture: A battlefield b.l.o.o.d.y; the conflict at rest; Around and about me the corpses are lying; The blood cries aloud from the earth's gory breast.

A moment... and hark! The loud signal is sounded, The dead rise again and renewed is the fight...

They struggle, these corpses; for strangers, for strangers!

They struggle, they fall, and they sink into night.

I gaze on the battle in bitterest anger, And pain, h.e.l.lish pain wakes the rebel in me!

The clock--now I hear it aright!--It is crying: "An end to this bondage! An end there must be!"

It quickens my reason, each feeling within me; It shows me how precious the moments that fly.

Oh, worthless my life if I longer am silent, And lost to the world if in silence I die.

The man in me sleeping begins to awaken; The thing that was slave into slumber has pa.s.sed: Now; up with the man in me! Up and be doing!

No misery more! Here is freedom at last!

When sudden: a whistle!--the Boss--an alarum!-- I sink in the slime of the stagnant routine;-- There's tumult, they struggle, oh, lost is my ego;-- I know not, I care not, I am a machine!...

My Boy

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 will come my dear papa And bring a penny bright?"

I hear her words--I hasten out-- This moment must it be!-- The father-love flames in my breast: My child must look at me!

I stand beside the tiny cot, And look, and list, and--ah!

A dream-thought moves the baby-lips: "O, where is my papa!"

I kiss and kiss the shut blue eyes; I kiss them not in vain.

They open,--O they see me then!

And straightway close again.

"Here's your papa, my precious one;-- A penny for you!"--ah!

A dream still moves the baby-lips: "O, where is my papa!"

And I--I think in bitterness And disappointment sore; "Some day you will awake, my child, To find me nevermore."

The Nightingale to the Workman

Fair summer is here, glad summer is here!

O hark! 'tis to you I am singing: The sun is all gold in a heaven of blue, The birds in the forest are trilling for you, The flies 'mid the gra.s.ses are winging; The little brook babbles--its secret is sweet.

The loveliest flowers would circle your feet,-- And you to your work ever clinging!...

Come forth! Nature loves you. Come forth! Do not fear!

Fair summer is here, glad summer is here, Full measure of happiness bringing.

All creatures drink deep; and they pour wine anew In the old cup of life, and they wonder at you.

Your portion is waiting since summer began; Then take it, oh, take it, you laboring man!

'Tis summer today; ay, summer today!

The b.u.t.terflies light on the flowers.

Delightfully glistens the silvery rain, 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 pa.s.ses away!

'Tis summer today, sweet summer today!

Come, throttle your wheel's grinding power!...

Your worktime is bitter and endless in length; And have you not foolishly lavished your strength?

O think not the world is with bitterness rife, But drink of the wine from the goblet of life.

O, summer is here, sweet summer is here!