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 are past: the feel of clay was hard at last. The form I gave it, it still bore, but I could change that form no more.
I took a piece of living clay, and gently formed it day by day. And moulded with my press and art, a young child’s soft and yielding heart.
I came again when years were gone: it was a man I looked upon. He still that early impress wore, and I could change it never more.
A Piece of Clay