I took a piece of raw 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 piece 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 moulded it with imagination art,
A young child's soft and yielding heart.
I came again when years were gone,
It was a woman I looked upon;
The form I gave her still she bore
And I could change that from no more.
