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 that were used were
books, music, and art.
One was a parent
with a guiding hand and a gentle, loving heart.
Day after day the teacher toiled
with a touch that was deft and sure.
While the parent labored side-by-side
and polished and smoothed it o'er.
And when at last the task was done
they were proud of what they had wrought.
For the things they had molded into the child,
could never be forgot.
And they agreed each would have failed
if either had worked alone.
For behind the parent stood the school,
and behind the teacher, the home.