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Three Dreamers
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Under the archway across the cold courtyard Up the stone stairway all pitted and worn To a room in a shambles with orange-boxes for chairs Our lives lay scattered still yet to be born Now daylight would show you the cracks in the ceiling Wallpaper hanging all tattered and torn It looks like a junkyard of paraphernalia Where three dreamers dreamed dreams still yet to be born No one was a dreamer, a love-torn romantic Who sang ballads of barons and ladies forlorn Who carved love-chains of oakwood to capture his sweethearts And life lay before him still yet to be born The other was a maker of dreams from his fingers Like a harp from old Ireland that would play night and morn He could weave you and spin you a yarn to remember And leave you with sweet dreams still yet to be born
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