Unity (a poem)

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 she used

Were books and music and field and art;

One was a parent with a guiding hand

And a gentle and listening and 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 had wrought;

For the things they had molded into the child

Could neither be sold nor bought.

And each agreed he would have failed

If he had worked alone.

For behind the parent stood the school

And behind the teacher, the home.