Page:Life of John Boyle O'Reilly.djvu/510

 464 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 choked 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 for the dream alway;

For a dreamer lives forever.

And a toiler dies in a day.