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I dreamed I stood in a studio
And watched two sculptors there.
The clay they used was a young child’s mind
And they fashioned it with care.
One was a teacher; the tools she used
Were books and music and art;
One a parent with a guiding hand, and a
Gentle, loving heart.
Day after day the teacher toiled, with
Touch that was deft and sure;
While the parent labored by his side
And polished it o’er.
And when at last their task was done,
They were proud of what they had wrought.
For the things that had molded into the child,
Could neither be sold nor bought.
And each agreed he would have failed
If he had worked alone.
For behind the parent stood the school,
And behind the teacher the home.