| 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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