| I’ve met some folks
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| Who say that I’m a dreamer
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| And I’ve no doubt
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| 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
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| Are dreams unto an exile
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| They take him o’er
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| 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 Inisfree
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| And when the moonlight
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| Peeps across the rooftops
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| Of this great city
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| Wondrous though it be
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| I scarcly feel its wonder or laughter
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| I’m once again back home in Inisfree
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| I wonder o’er green hills
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| Through dreamy valleys
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| And find a peace
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| No other land would know
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| I hear the birds make music fit for angels
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| And watch the rivers laughing
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| As they flow
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| And then into a humble shack I wander
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| My dear old home
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| And tenderly behold
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| The folks I love
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| Around the turf fire gathered
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| On bended knee
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| Their rosary is told
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| But dreams don’t last
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| Though dreams are not forgotten
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| And soon I’m back
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| To stern reality
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| But though they pave
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| The footways here with gold dust
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| I still would choose
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| My Isle of Inisfree |