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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408970" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Writer's Dream</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;<br>For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.<br>His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;<br>His land seemed barren, its people cold—yet the world was dear to him;—<br>So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,<br>In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be. <br>And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and wood,<br>And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;<br>There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and gold,<br>And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.<br>The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were free—<br>For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the last that were born of a noble race—when the page of the South was fair—<br>The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.<br>He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient lore,<br>And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such—ah! many a year before.<br>And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,<br>‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these—and the wise who read shall learn. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">‘Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:<br>‘Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;<br>‘But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I’ll write recall,<br>‘With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows all.<br>‘Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with glee—<br>‘And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.’ </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The lines ran on as he dipped his pen—ran true to his heart and ear—<br>Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.<br>The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light—<br>He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.<br>And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:<br>‘’Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book you’ll read!’ he cried. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)<br>From local ‘Fashion’ and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.<br>What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?<br>But the local spirit intensified—with its pitiful shams—was there;<br>There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)<br>They hated each other as women could—but they hated the stranger most. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate—<br>‘I’ll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.<br>‘’Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,’ he said to the paltry pride—<br>(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne’er erred on the generous side)—<br>‘They’ll prove me true and they’ll prove me kind ere the year of grace be passed,’<br>But the ignorant whisper of ‘axe to grind!’ went home to his heart at last. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,<br>His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.<br>The world-wise lines of an elder age were plain on his aching brow,<br>As he sadly thought of each brighter page that would never be written now.<br>‘I’ll write no more!’ But he bowed his head, for his heart was in Dreamland yet—<br>‘The pages written I’ll burn,’ he said, ‘and the pages thought forget.’ </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But he heard the hymn of the Open Sea, and the old fierce anger burned,<br>And he wrenched his heart from its dreamland free as the fire of his youth returned:—<br>‘The weak man’s madness, the strong man’s scorn—the rebellious hate of youth<br>‘From a deeper love of the world are born! And the cynical ghost is Truth!’<br>And the writer rose with a strength anew wherein Doubt could have no part;<br>‘I’ll write my book and it shall be true—the truth of a writer’s heart. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">‘Ay! cover the wrong with a fairy tale—who never knew want or care—<br>‘A bright green scum on a stagnant pool that will reek the longer there.<br>‘You may starve the writer and buy the pen—you may drive it with want and fear—<br>‘But the lines run false in the hearts of men—and false to the writer’s ear.<br>‘The bard’s a rebel and strife his part, and he’ll burst from his bonds anew,<br>‘Till all pens write from a single heart! And so may the dream come true. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">‘’Tis ever the same in the paths of men where money and dress are all,<br>‘The crawler will bully whene’er he can, and the bully who can’t will crawl.<br>‘And this is the creed in the local hole, where the souls of the selfish rule;<br>‘Borrow and cheat while the stranger’s green, then sneer at the simple fool.<br>‘Spit your spite at the men whom Fate has placed in the head-race first,<br>‘And hate till death, with a senseless hate, the man you have injured worst! <br>‘There are generous hearts in the grinding street, but the Hearts of the World go west;<br>‘For the men who toil in the dust and heat of the barren lands are best!<br>‘The stranger’s hand to the stranger, yet—for a roving folk are mine—<br>‘The stranger’s store for the stranger set—and the camp-fire glow the sign!<br>‘The generous hearts of the world, we find, thrive best on the barren sod,<br>‘And the selfish thrive where Nature’s kind (they’d bully or crawl to God!) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">‘I was born to write of the things that are! and the strength was given to me.<br>‘I was born to strike at the things that mar the world as the world should be!<br>‘By the dumb heart-hunger and dreams of youth, by the hungry tracks I’ve trod—<br>‘I’ll fight as a man for the sake of truth, nor pose as a martyred god.<br>‘By the heart of “Bill” and the heart of “Jim,” and the men that their hearts deem “white,”<br>‘By the handgrips fierce, and the hard eyes dim with forbidden tears!—I’ll write! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">‘I’ll write untroubled by cultured fools, or the dense that fume and fret—<br>‘For against the wisdom of all their schools I would stake mine instinct yet!<br>‘For the cynical strain in the writer’s song is the world, not he, to blame,<br>‘And I’ll write as I think, in the knowledge strong that thousands think the same;<br>‘And the men who fight in the Dry Country grim battles by day, by night,<br>‘Will believe in me, and will stand by me, and will say to the world, “He’s right!”’</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408970" data-title="The Writer's Dream de Henry Lawson" data-description="A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;
For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.
His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;
His land seemed barren, i..."></div>
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