The Cry of the Dreamer – John Boyle O’Reilly

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 live forever,

And a toiler dies in a day.

I am sick of the showy seeming

Of a life that 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.

Also Read: Successful people are not mere dreamers

I can feel no pride but pity

For the burden the rich endure;

There is nothing sweet in the city

But the patient lives of the poor.

Ah, the little hands too skillful,

And the child-mind choked with weeds!

The daughter’s heart grown wilful,

And the father’s heart that bleeds!

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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 always;

For a dreamer lives forever,

And a toiler dies in a day

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