I dreamed I stood in a studio
And watched two sculptors there,
The clay they used was a young child's mind
And they finished it with care.
One was a teacher; the tools he used
Were books and music and art;
One a parent with a guiding hand
And a gentle and loving heart.
Day after day the teacher toiled
With a touch that was deft and sure
While the parent laboured by his side
And polished and smoothed it o'er.
And when at last their task was done
They were proud of what they had wrought,
For the things they had moulded 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.