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46 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 choked with weeds!

The daughter's 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.