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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OUT OF THE HILLS by IRENE ARCHER THE COVERT by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN CLOWNS' DAY by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON DRIFTWOOD by DAISY DEAN BUTLER IF LIFE BE BITTER by RHYS CARPENTER THE REBEL by OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN THE TEMPEST GOD by LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON A IS FOR ARTIST by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE BIG MERRY-GO-ROUND (A SONG FOR A CHILD) by RICHARD DEHMEL |