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The Sculptor
I took a piece of potter's 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 passed,
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 formed it day by day,
And molded 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 wore,
And I could change him nevermore.
-- Author Unknown
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