The Clay

 

 I took a piece of plastic 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, 

But I could change that form no more. 

I took a piece of living clay

And touched it gently 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 mind I looked upon; 

That early impress still he wore, 

And I could change that form no more.