Saturday, November 14, 2015

The Cry of the Dreamer

The Boulevard Montmartre on a Winter Morning.JPG
"The Boulevard Montmartre on a Winter Morning" by Camille Pissarro - Metropolitan Museum of Art, online database: entry 437310. Licensed under Public Domain via Commons.

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 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.
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.