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, music and art.
The other—a parent, worked with a guiding hand
And a gentle, loving heart.
Day after day the teacher toiled with a touch
That was deft and sure.
While the parent labored by her side
And polished and smoothed it o’re.
And when at last their task 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 they would have failed
If each had worked alone,
For behind the parent stood the school
And behind the teacher, the home.
—author unknown
