From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 27, 1913. By John Boyle O’Reilly. I am tired of planning and toiling In the crowded hives of men; Heartweary 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 of 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 wood’s low rustle And the meadow’s kindly page. Let me dream as of yore by the river And be loved for the dream alway; For a dreamer lives forever, And a thinker dies in a day.