As from the house your mother sees <br />You playing round the garden trees, <br />So you may see, if you will look <br />Through the windows of this book, <br />Another child, far, far away, <br />And in another garden, play. <br />But do not think you can at all, <br />By knocking on the window, call <br />That child to hear you. He intent <br />Is all on his play-business bent. <br />He does not hear; he will not look, <br />Nor yet be lured out of this book. <br />For, long ago, the truth to say, <br />He has grown up and gone away, <br />And it is but a child of air <br />That lingers in the garden there.<br /><br />Robert Louis Stevenson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-any-reader/
