My harp is silent." "Is it your poem?" I asked.
He nodded bashfully
"When did you compose it?"
"A few weeks ago."
"Has it been printed?" He shook his head
"Why?"
"I could have it printed in a Hebrew weekly we publish here,
but--well, I did not care to."
"You mean The Pen?"
"Yes. Do you see it sometimes?"
"I did, once. I am going to subscribe for it. Anyhow, the poem
belies itself. It shows that your harp has not fallen silent."
He smiled, flushed with satisfaction, like a shy schoolboy, and
proceeded to recite another Hebrew poem: "Most song-birds do
not sing in captivity. I was once a song-bird, but America is my
cage. It is not my home. My song is gone."
"This poem, too, gives itself the lie!" I declared. "But the idea of
America being likened to a prison!"
"It is of my soul I speak," he said, resentfully. "Russia did not
imprison it, did it? Russia is a better country than America,
anyhow, even if she is oppressed by a czar. It's a freer country,
too--for the spirit, at least.
There is more poetry there, more music, more feeling, even if our
people do suffer appalling persecution.
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