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 he used were books, music and art;
One a parent with a guiding hand and a gentle loving heart.

And when at last their work was done
They were proud of what they had wrought
For the things they moulded into the child
Could never be sold or bought.

And each agrees he would have failed
If he had worked alone.
For behind the parent stood the school,
And behind the teacher, the home.