The Sculptor

I took a piece of plastic clay

And idly fashioned it one day,

And as my fingers pressed it, still

It bent and yielded to my will.

I came again, when days were pressed,

The bit of clay was hard at last.

The form I gave it, still it bore,

But 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 bore,

And I could change it, nevermore.

Author Unknown