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 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.