THE CRY OF THE DREAMER - Francis Grose Poems

 
 

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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 the 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.