It is sweet to talk with you, dear, of the woods and crys-tal
streams,
and the ros-es wet with dew, dear, in the is-land of our dreams.
In the beau-ti-ful isle of our dreams, dear,
there is ne-ver a sor-row or pain,
Eve-ry trou-ble and care quick-ly van-ish-es there
and all is made hap-py a-gain.
So we'll leave this cold, wea-ry old world, dear,
where there's noth-ing that's quite what it seems,
And we'll sail o'er the sea where for just you and me,
there's a home in the isle of our dreams.
When my heart grows faint and wea-ry,
When the world goes sad-ly ill.
It is sweet to hear you dear-ie
Whis-per that you love me still.