The Cry of the Dreamer
by John Boyle O’Reilly (1844-1890)

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.

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