"The Cry of the Dreamer"

I am tired of planning and toiling
In the crowded lives of man;
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 toiler 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 daughters heart grown wilful,
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 for the dream alway,
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.

- John Boyle O'Reilly