Only a Dad with a tired face

Coming home from the daily race

Bringing little of gold or fame

To show how well he has played the game;

But glad in his heart that his own rejoice

To see him come and to hear his voice.

Only a Dad with a brood of four (or more)

One of ten million or more

Plodding along in the daily strife

Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,

With never a whimper of pain or hate

For the sake of those who at home await.

Only a Dad neither rich nor proud

Merely one of the surging crowd,

Toiling, striving from day to day

Facing whatever may come his way,

Silent whenever the harsh condemn

And bearing it all for the love of them.

Only a Dad, but he gives his all

To smooth the way for his children small,

Doing with courage stern and grim

The deeds that his father did for him.

This is the line that for him I pen:

Only a Dad but the best of men.

by Edgar Guest

"It doesn't matter who my father was;
it matters who I remember he was."

~By Anne Sexton (1928-1974) U.S. poet~

The gentleman in the center front of the photo
is my Great Great Grandfather,
and in him a line of fathers who would come. Because
of them, I am here today, by God's Design.