Say whither, whither, pretty one?
The hour is young at present!
How hushed is all the world around!
Ere dawn—the streets hold not a sound.
O whither, whither do you run?
Sleep at this hour is pleasant.
The flowers are dreaming, dewy-wet;
The bird-nests they are silent yet.
Where to, before the rising sun
The world her light is giving?
“To earn a living.”
O whither, whither, pretty child,
So late at night a-strolling?
Alone—with darkness round you curled?
All rests!—and sleeping is the world.
Where drives you now the wind so wild?
The midnight bells are tolling!
Day hath not warmed you with her light;
What aid canst hope then from the night?
Night’s deaf and blind!—Oh, whither, child,
Light-minded fancies weaving?
“To earn a living.”
[From “Songs of Labor” by Morris Rosenfeld, translated
by Rose Pastor Stokes and Helena Frank.]