“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 past:
The feel of clay was hard at last,
The form I gave it, it still 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 press 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 it never more.”