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,
The other, a parent, worked with guiding hand
And gentle loving heart
Day after day, the teacher toiled with touch
That was careful, deft, and sure
While the parent labored by his side
And polished and smoothed o’er.
And when at last their work was done
They were proud of what they 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 was the school
And behind the teacher the home.