I took a piece of plastic clay,
And idly fashioned it one day,
And as my fingers pressed it still,
It molded – yielding to my will.
I came again when days were past,
The bit of clay was firm at last,
The form I gave it, still it wore,
And I could change that form no more.
A far more precious thing than clay,
I gently shaped from day to day,
And molded with my fumbling art,
A young child’s soft and yielding heart.
I came again when years were gone,
And it was a man I looked upon,
Who such godlike nature bore
The men could change it – NEVERMORE.