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.
