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 book, music and art.
The other, a parent, worked with a guiding hand
And a gentle, loving heart.

Day after day, the teacher toil’d with touch
That was careful, deft and sure.
While the parent labored by her side
And polished and smoothed it o’er.

And when at last, their work was done
They were proud of what they had wrought.
For the things they had molded into the child
Could neither be sold or bought.

And each agreed they would have failed
If each had worked alone.
For behind the parent stood the school
And behind the teacher, the home.

-Author unknown