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 being used

Were books and music and art,

One a parent with a guiding hand

And a gentle, loving heart.

Day after day they toiled

With touch that was deft and sure,

While the parent laboured just as hard

And polished and smoothed it o’er.

When at last their task was done

They were proud of what they wrought,

For the things they had moulded into the child

Could neither be sold nor bought.

And both agreed they would have failed

If they had worked alone;

For behind the parents stood the school

And behind the teacher, the home.