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Day unto day bequeaths its fading sun,
and night after night laments for night.
Summer after summer is gathered in fall
and the world in its sorrow gives song.
Tomorrow we’ll die, the word in us…
Arnold Böcklin is dead—yet who among you knew that he lived? If I were to tell you that he was the man who knew how, with paintbrush dipped in colors upon a piece of canvas, to shake every heart…
Menasseh ben Joseph ben Israel, seeing the Bomberg types worn out, and since nothing can be imperfect for the Holy Work, arose from within the community and went out, and came to the house of an…
Mendele the bookpeddler says: Whenever a Jew comes to a journey’s end, he feels as if his hips are breaking, his back aching, and his knees shaking from being crushed and squeezed…
In recent years, a time when the branches of science planted in the vineyard of the Enlightenment stretch out to our brethren in our land [i.e., the Russian Empire], and many eat their fruit, and many…
Edited by David Frishman and published by Stybel