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 St Paul's 
I see beyond the dome and crowd, 
Twm Barlum, that green pap in Gwent, 
With its dark nipple in a cloud.