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Cry of the Dreamer

From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 27, 1913.
 By John Boyle O’Reilly.

 I am tired of planning and toiling
     In the crowded hives of men;
 Heartweary 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 forever
     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 of 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 wood’s low rustle
     And the meadow’s kindly page.
 Let me dream as of yore by the river
     And be loved for the dream alway;
 For a dreamer lives forever,
     And a thinker dies in a day.

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