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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 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.

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