Comforting too, Ladyjane, I would think.
I like this one. It is by Robert Louis Stevenson and I used to read it when I was a child. It would give me a shiver but it is only as an adult that I think the true meaning comes to light. It is the very last poem in his book "A Child's Garden of Verses.
To Any Reader.
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear; he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
and this one by W.B. Yeats...
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light
I would spread the cloths under your feet;
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Taz x
