C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

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.