THE SCULPTORS

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 with care. 

One was a teacher, the tools she used 

Were books and music and art: 

One was a parent with a guiding hand 

And a gentle and loving heart. 

Day after day the teacher toiled 

With touch that was deft and sure, 

While the parent laboured by her side 

And polished and smoothed it over. 

And when at last their work was done, 

They were proud of what they wrought, 

For the things they hand moulded into the child 

Could be neither sold nor bought. 

And each agreed she would have failed 

If she had worked alone. 

For behind the parent stood the Preschool 

And behind the teacher, the home.