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