The Cry of a Dreamer

 John Boyle O Riley 1844-1890

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' endeavor,
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 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 the 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.