I dreamed I stood in a studio
And watched the sculptors there,
The clay they used was a young child’s mind
And they fashioned 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 warm and gentle heart.
With touch that was deft and sure,
While the parent labored by his side,
And polished and smoothed it o’er
‘Till both were satisfied.
And when at last their work was done,
They were proud of what they had wrought.
For the things they 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.