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.