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 a life that is half a lie; Of the faces lined with scheming In the throng that hurries by, >From the sleepless thoughts' 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. Ah, the little hands too skillful, And the child-mind choked with weeds! The daughter's heart grown willful, 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 woods' low rustle And the meadows' kindly page. Let me dream as of old by the river, And be loved for the dream alway; For a dreamer lives forever, And a toiler dies in a day. -- John Boyle O'Reilly (1844-1890)