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The Cry of the Dreamer

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The Cry of the Dreamerby 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 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 chocked 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. …