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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 Inisfree. 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 Inisfree. I wander o'er green hills through dreamy valleys, And find a peace no other land would 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 footways here with gold dust, I still would choose the Isle of Inisfree From Letras Mania