This is one of my favorite poems, by an unknown author, having to do with the imprint we may make on the lives of children. It was given to me years ago by a dear friend, Connie Pruitt. I have slightly edited it.

A PIECE OF CLAY.
I took a piece of simple clay
And idly fashioned it one day,
And as my fingers pressed it still,
It moved and yielded at my will.

I came again when days were past;
That bit of clay was hard at last,
My early impress it still bore,
But I could change its form no more.

I took a piece of living clay,
And gently formed it day by day,
And molded with my power and art
A young child’s soft and yielding heart.

I came again when days were gone;
A grownup I now looked upon;
My early impress he (she)
still wore,
And I could change it nevermore.