Thursday, April 7, 2011

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.

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