The Teacher

I took a piece of plastic clay
and idly fashioned it one day—
and as my fingers pressed it, still
It moved and yielded to my will.

I came again when days were past;
The bit of clay was hard at last.
The form I gave it, still it bore,
And I could change that form no more!

I took a piece of living clay,
And gently fashioned it day by day,
And moulded with my power and art
A young child’s soft and yielding heart.

I came again when years were gone:
It was a man I looked upon.
He still that early impress bore,
And I could fashion it never more.
—Author Unknown