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 a life that is half a lie; 
Of the faces lined with scheming 
In the throng that hurries by. 
From the sleepless thoughts' 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 woods' low rustle 
And the meadows' kindly page. 
Let me dream as of old by the river, 
And be loved for the dream alway; 
For a dreamer lives forever, 
And a toiler dies in a day. 

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak—thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there—I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!