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.<br /><br />William Henry Davies<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-mind-s-liberty/
