I love my dreams
I love my dreams
I said, a winter morn
To the practical man
And he, in scorn
Replied
I am no slave of the ideal
But as all men of sense
I love the real
Poor fool, mistaking
All that is and seems
I love the real
When I love my dreams
I love my dreams
I said, a winter morn
To the practical man
And he, in scorn
Replied
I am no slave of the ideal
But as all men of sense
I love the real
Poor fool, mistaking
All that is and seems
I love the real
When I love my dreams
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