The Mind's Liberty

The mind, with its own eyes and ears,

May for these others have no care;

No matter where this body is,

The mind is free to go elsewhere.

My mind can be a sailor, when

This body’s still confined to land;

And turn these mortals into trees,

That walk in Fleet Street or the Strand.

So, when I’m passing Charing Cross,

Where porters work both night and day,

I ofttimes hear sweet Malpas Brook,

That flows thrice fifty miles away.

And when I’m passing near Sr. Paul’s,

I see, beyond the dome and crowd,

Tom Barlum, that green pap in Gwent,

With its dark nipple in a cloud.