Over the crest of the Hill of Sleep,
Over the plain where the mists lie deep,
Into a country of wondrous things,
Enter we dreaming, and know we're kings.
Murmur or roar as it may, the stream
Laughs to the youngster who dreams his dream.
Leave him alone till his fool's heart breaks:
Dreams all are real till the dreamer wakes!
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Comments about this poem (The Dreamer by Dorothea Mackellar )
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