I took a piece of plastic clay
And idly fashioned it one day —
And as my fingers pressed it, still
It moved and yielded at my will.
I came again when days were past;
The bit of clay was hard at last.
The form I gave it, still it bore,
And 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 never more.