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 the days were passed,

And 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 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 the days were gone,

It was a man I looked upon.

He still that early impress wore,

But I could change that form no more.