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 had passed,
That piece of clay was hard and fast,
The form I gave it still it bore,
And I could change it never more.

I took a piece of living clay,
And gently formed it day by day,
And moulded with my power and art,
A young child's soft and yielding heart.

I came again when years had gone,
It was an adult I looked upon,
The early imprint it still bore,
and I could change him never more.