The stars are wheeling overhead
And I think thoughts of Far Away.
Of a place that I’ve not been;
Sights that I have yet to see:
Mountains rising like the moon;
Ice caps glinting in the sun!
Yet here am, beneath the trees,
I sigh: if only I could run.

On the road or by the sea?
What caravan will take me there?
Might I travel through the sky—
By chartered plane, or flight of birds?
Or better yet, above the sands
On soaring carpet, I could fly!
But here am I, still rooted deep,
Dreaming; only dreaming.

A winding road before my feet:
To hollows in the hills it leads.
Where sighs of shifting willow boughs
Are swaying now to pull me on.
The fire glowing in the dark
Lights my heart and speeds my feet
The trickle of the mountain stream
Sounds like a song I wish I’d heard.

Through the earth or in the trees?
What speeding train will take me there?
I could travel as wind blown leaves—
Gusting, shifting, here and there.
Or better yet, across the waves
On creaking timbers, I could sail!
But here am I still rooted deep:
Dreaming; only dreaming.

My heart so longs for distant lands;
My eyes cry out for new seashores.
But I am only what I am,
And here I stay, forevermore.
My feet have sunken into place
And rust has ground my gears to halt.
For I am only what I am:
Dreaming; only dreaming.

Across the clouds my spirit roams;
What gentle wind would take me there?
Would that I could be like those:
The free-formed souls that wander, lost.
Or if not that, a traveling type—
With cracked soles on which to stand!
But here am I, still rooted deep,
Dreaming; only dreaming,
And here I stay, still rooted deep—
Dreaming, only dreaming.