My tailor's shears I scorned then;
I strove for something higher:
To edit news-live by the pen-
The pen that shall not tire!
The pen, that was my humble slave,
Has now enslaved its master;
And fast as flows its Midas-wave,
My rebel tears flow faster.
The world I clad once, tailor-hired,
Whilst I in tatters quaked,
Today, you see me well attired,
Who lets the world go naked.
What human soul, how'er oppressed,
Can feel my chained soul's yearning!
A monster woe lies in my breast,
In voiceless anguish burning.
Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do!
I'll bear as ne'er I bore it.
My blood!… you sweatshop leeches, you!…
Now less I'll blame you for it.
I'll stitch as ne'er in former years;
I'll drive the mad wheel faster;
Slave will I be but to the shears;
The pen shall know its master!
Pen And Shears
Morris Rosenfeld
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Poem topics: feel, today, monster, human, fast, door, humble, live, wheel, anguish, world, soul, master, slave, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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