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Cover made of marble and pearl holds the secrets of a unique girl.

	John Boyle O'Reilly
	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 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 alway; For a dreamer lives forever, And the toiler dies in a day. Zabethlyburn · Thu Dec 11, 2008 @ 06:27am · 0 Comments


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