John Boyle O'Reilly

(28 June 1844 - 10 August 1890 / Dowth Castle, County Meath)

The Cry Of The Dreamer - Poem by John Boyle O'Reilly

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' endeavour,
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.

Comments about The Cry Of The Dreamer by John Boyle O'Reilly

  • (9/6/2017 8:38:00 AM)

    I am presumptuous enough to add a stanza after O'Reilly's first

    Thus, the answer to your longing cry;
    Is to make of your daily toil
    As if you are by your dear river’s side;
    Enthused everyday, for joy does not spoil.
    Make of your building, that old river,
    Then you’ll be living in your dream every day.
    For a dreamer’s lifetime is forever,
    If toil doesn’t get in the way.
    (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, May 20, 2012

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