I dreamed that 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 she 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 by her side and polished and smoothed it o'er.

And when at last their task was done, they were proud of what they'd wrought.

For the things they'd molded into the child, could be neither sold nor bought.

And each agreed that he'd have failed, if he had worked alone,

For behind the parent stood the school, and behind the teacher, the home.