The mind, with its own eyes and ears, br May for these others have no care; br No matter where this body is, br The mind is free to go elsewhere. br My mind can be a sailor, when br This body's still confined to land; br And turn these mortals into trees, br That walk in Fleet Street or the Strand. br br So, when I'm passing Charing Cross, br Where porters work both night and day, br I ofttimes hear sweet Malpas Brook, br That flows thrice fifty miles away. br And when I'm passing near St Paul's br I see beyond the dome and crowd, br Twm Barlum, that green pap in Gwent, br With its dark nipple in a cloud.