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 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 it o'er.

And when at last their work 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.

 

Anonymous