The Cry of the Dreamer

by John Boyle O'Reilly

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 for ever, 

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. 

Oh, the little hands too skilful 

And the child-mind chocked with weeds!

The daughter's heart grown wilful, 

And the father's heart that bleeds!

No, no! from the streat'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 by the dream away; 

For the dreamer lives for ever, 

And a toiler dies in a day.