Short Story

A Child is for Molding {Anonymous}

I took a piece of plastic clay,

And idly fashioned it one day,

And as my fingers pressed it still,

It bent and yielded to 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,

But I could change that form no more.

I took a piece of living clay,

And gently formed it day by day.

And molded it with power and art,

A young child's soft and yielded heart.

I came again when years were gone,

He was a man I looked upon.

The early imprint still he bore,

But I could change him then no more.