To the Boy

I have no wish, my little lad,

To climb the towering heights of fame.

I am content to be your dad

And share with you each pleasant game.

I am content to hold your hand

And walk along life's path with you,

And talk of things we understand —

The birds and trees and skies of blue.

Though some may seek the smiles of kings,

For me your laughter's joy enough;

I have no wish to claim the things

Which lure men into pathways rough.

I'm happiest when you and I,

Unmindful of life's bitter cares,

Together watch the clouds drift by,

Or follow boyhood's thoroughfares.

I crave no more of life than this:

Continuance of such a trust;

Your smile, whate'er the morning is,

Until my clay returns to dust.

If but this comradeship may last

Until I end my earthly task —

Your hand and mine by love held fast —

Fame has no charm for which I'd ask.

I would not trade one day with you

To wear the purple robes of power,

Nor drop your hand from mine to do

Some great deed in a selfish hour.

For you have brought me joy serene

And made my soul supremely glad.

In life rewarded I have been;

‘ Twas all worth while to be your dad.