46
THE CRY OF THE DREAMER.
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 skilful.
And the child-mind choked with weeds!
The daughter's heart grown wilful,
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.
