Unity
I dreamed
I stood in a studio
And watched
two sculptors there,
The clay
used was a young child’s mind,
And they
fashioned it with care.
One was
a teacher; the tools he used
Were
books and music and art;
One,
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 by his side
And polished
and smoothed it o’er.
And when
at last their task was done
They
were proud of what they wrought,
For the
things they had molded in the child
Could
neither be sold nor bought.
And each
agreed he would have failed
If he
had worked alone.
For behind
the parent stood the school,
And behind
the teacher the home.
Anonymous
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