A Poem I Recently Found and Think I Like

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 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 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

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