The Cry of the Dreamer I AM tired of planning and toiling In the crowded hives of men, Heart-weary of building and spoiling, And spoiling and building again, And I long for the dear old river, Where I dreamed my youth away; For a dreamer lives forever, And a toiler dies in a day. I am sick of the showy seeming, Of life that is half a lie; Of the faces lined with scheming In the throng that hurries by; >From the sleepless thought's endeavour I would go where the children play; For a dreamer lives forever, And a thinker dies in a day. I can feel no pride, but pity, For the burdens the rich endure; There is nothing sweet in the city But the patient lives of the poor. Oh, the little hands too skilful, And the child-mind choked with weeds! The daughter's heart grown wilful And the father's heart that bleeds! No! no! from the street's rude bustle, >From trophies of mart and stage, I would fly to the wood's low rustle And the meadows' kindly page. Let me dream as of old by the river, And be loved for my dreams alway; For a dreamer lives forever, And the toiler dies in a day. John Boyle O'Reilly O'Reilly arrived in Boston in 1870, and for the next 20 years was recognised as a powerful spokesman for the downtrodden, at times single-handedly bridging the gap between people of various races, creeds and nationalities. O'Reilly was one of the most prominent journalists of his day promoting the rights of Jews, American Indians and Blacks.