I've met some folks who say that I'm a dreamer|
And I've no doubt there's truth in what they say,
But sure a body's bound to be a dreamer
When all the things he loves are far away.
And precious things are dreams unto an exile;
They take him o'er the land across the sea,
Especially when it happens he's an exile,
From that dear lovely Isle of Innisfree.
And when the moonlight peeps across the rooftops
Of this great city wondrous though it be,
I scarcely feel its wonder or its laughter;
I'm once again back home in Innisfree.
I wander o'er green hills through dreamy valleys
And find a peace no other land could know;
I hear the birds make music fit for angels
And watch the rivers laughing as they flow.
And then into a humble shack I wander
My dear old home, and tenderly behold,
The folks I love around the turf fire gathered
On bended knees their rosary is told.
But dreams don't last, though dreams are not forgotten
And soon I'm back to stern reality,
But though they pave the footpaths here with gold-dust,
I still would choose my Isle of Innsifree.
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