A White Rose

THE red rose whispers of passion,

And the white rose breathes of love;

Oh, the red rose is a falcon,

And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud,

With a flush on its petal tips;

For the love that is purest and sweetest

Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

John Boyle O'Reilly

The Cry of the Dreamer

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 life that is half a lie;

Of the faces lined with scheming

In the throng that hurries by;

From the sleepless thought's 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 meadows' kindly page.

Let me dream as of old by the river,

And be loved for my dreams alway;

For a dreamer lives forever,

And the toiler dies in a day.

John Boyle O'Reilly