THE CRY OF THE DREAMER.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XIX, Issue 37, 19 June 1891, Page 31

THE CRY OF THE DREAMER.

(From the poems of John Botlb O'Bbillt.) I All tired of planning and toiling In the rcowded hives of men ; Heart weary of building and spoiling, And spoiling and building again. And 1 16ng for the dear old river, Where I dreamed my youth away ; For a dieamer lives for ever 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 thought's endeavour, I wonld go where the children play ; For a dreamer lives for ever, 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 tbe little hands too skilful, And the child-mind choked with weeds ; The daughter's heart grown wilful, And the father's heart that bleeds I No, no I from the street's rude bustle, From trophies of mart and stage, I would fly to the wood's low rustle And the meadew's kindly page. Let me dream as of old by tbe river, And be loved for the dream alway ; For a dreamer lives for ever, And a toiler dies in a day.