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 they used were 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 the side and polished and smothered it o'er.
And when at last their task was done
They were proud of what they had wrought,
For things that they had molded into the child
Could neither be sold nor bought.
And each agreed they would have failed
If they had worked alone
For behind the parent stood the school,
And behind the teacher, the home.