POETRY.
THE PALE WORKER
(Ma Marcum APRITER).
(From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld.) LO I yonder I see the pale worker,
Stitch, stitch, without pause, without stay, Since first I remember him, stitching, And paler and weaker each day.
The slow months roll on in their courses, The years are as days that have been, And still the pale worker, bent double, Fights hard with the cruel machine.
I stand and I gaze on his features, On his face with the sweat and the soil, Ah it is not the strength of the body, 'Tis the spirit that spurs him to toil.
But from dawn till the sunset and darkness, The tear-drops fall heavy and slow, Till the seams of the cloth be is stitching Are wet with the vintage of woe.
I pray you, how long must he drive it,
This wheel that is red for a sign p
Can you reckon the years of his bondage, And the end—that grim secret—divine ?
Too hard are such questions to answer, But this I am bold to declare,— When Death shall have slain the pale worker, Another will sit in his chair. B. PAUL NEUMAN.
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