The Cry of the Dreamer

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 endeavour
 * 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 skilful
 * And the child-mind chocked with weeds!

The daughter's heart grown wilful,
 * And the father's heart that bleeds!

No, no! from the streat'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.