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 forever,

          And a toiler dies in a day.

      I am sick of the showy seeming,

          Of life that is half a lie; 

      Of the faces lined with scheming

          In the throng that hurries by; 

      From the sleepless thought's 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 meadows' kindly page. 

      Let me dream as of old by the river,

          And be loved for my dreams always; 

      For a dreamer lives forever,

          And the toiler dies in a day.

          John Boyle O'Reilly