The sun. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1833-1916, 1906-03-18
POETS WORK ENDED.
MORRIS ROSENFELD NOW IN A
HOSPITAL WITH PARALYSIS.
A Sweat shop Toiler Whose Verses Were
Translated by q Harvard Professor and
VINO Was at One Time o Social Lion
in LOndOn-KnOwn Here for Satlres.

A Sweat Shop Toiler whose Verses Were
Translated by q Harvard Prof essor and
VINO Was at One Time q Social Lion
in LOndOn-KnOwn Here for SaLlres.
Jews here and in Europe were shocked
recently to learn Of the illness Of Morris
Rosenfeld, the Ghetto poet, who is in the
New York Physical and Surgical Hospital
suffering from a stroke Of paralysis. His
life will doubtless be saved, but he will
never write again.
Resented was born at Boska, in the gov
ernment Of Suwalki in Russian Poland,
forty-four years ago. His parents were
peasants, poor and igorant, and young
Rosenfeld ne YER went to school. When
II he vent to London, working his way,
to escape service in the army. There he
was employed as a tailor for three years,
but he made a failure Of this, and in 1880
came to New York and settled here on the
East Side.
He obtained work In a sweat shop, and for
the next fifteen years spent his life toiling
at the machines. His songs OF the Ghetto
have been translated into English prose
by Prof. Wiener of Harvard University,
Some OF them are called Songs for the
Laborer." They are not songs in the joy
full sense. They are rather tragic lyrics,
telling Of the ~insensate machines, the sweat
of the laborer and his tears. The following,
as translated by Prof. Wiener, is called
The Pale Operator:
/ see there Q pale operator all absorbed
IN his work. Ever sirce I remember him, he
has been sewing and using up his strength.
Months ny. and years pass away and the
pale faced one still bends over his work and
struggles with the unfeellng machine.
] stand and look at his face: his face Is be-
enutted and covered with sweat. | feel
that It Is not bodily strength that works in
him. but the excitement of the spirit, and the
tears fall In succession from daybreak unit
fall OF night and water the clothes, and enter
into the seams.
How long-how long. will the weak one
drive the bloody wheeli Who can tell me
the end? Who knows the terrible secret2
Hard, very hard TO answer that But one
thing Ia certain: when the work will have
killed him another will be sitting In his place
sewing.
This one Is called THE Sweat Shop:
The machines In the shop roar so wildly
that often I forget in the roar what I am; I
am lost in the terrible tumult. My ego dis
appears. ! I'M a machine. I work and
work and work without end, for what and
for whom I know not. ! ask not. How should
q machine ever come 10 think?
The shop at midday hour appears to me
ike q bloody battlefield where all are at rest.
About me ! see lying the dead. and the blood
that has been spille cries from the earth
q minute later-the tocsin is sounded; the
dead arise: the battle Is renewed. the oorpses
hoht-for stran1 ers, for strangers; and they
battle and fall and disappear into the night.
I look at the battlefield in bitter anger. in
terror, with a feeling OF revenge, with a
helllsh pain. The clock. now | hear 1t Alright,
IL calling An end TO slavery; an end shall
it be- The man that sleeps In me begins TO
waken. The slave that wakens in me lie put
to sleep. Now the Right Hour IL m An
end TO misery An end let It bel But