This file includes page toppers and poems about fathers and daughters. Also see Little Girls, Girls Growing Up, Fathers and the Children Section.
A good answer to give those overly smug parents of children of both sexes when they express sympathy for your lack of ability to produce a son: "If the good Lord thought another man was needed in my house, He would send one."
(author unknown)
You're the end of my rainbow, my pot of gold.
You're Daddy's little girl, to have and hold.
A precious gem is what you are.
You're Mommy's bright and shining star.
You're the spirit of Christmas, my star on the tree.
You're the Easter Bunny to Mommy and me.
You're sugar, you're spice,
You're everything nice,
And you're Daddy's little girl.
(author unknown)
A daddy and his daughters, walking hand in hand,
Though he can't spend much time with them,
They say they understand.
When he's at work or on a trip, the memory of him lingers,
The two girls smile, they know they have him
Wrapped around their fingers.
A slight tilt of their pretty heads, a smile, a lowered glance,
A hug and kiss and, "Daddy please?"
He doesn't stand a chance!
In later years he will recall, with tenderness and love,
Two charming girls, with hands in his,
Two blessings from above.
(Phyllis McGinley)
The first thing to remember about fathers is, they're men.
A girl has to keep it in mind.
They are dragon-seekers, bent on impossible rescues.
Scratch any father, you find
Someone chock-full of qualms and romantic terrors,
Believing change is a threat--
Like your first shoes with heel on, like your first bicycle
It took months to get.
Walk in strange woods, they warn you about the snakes there.
Climb and they fear you'll fall.
Books, angular looks, swimming in deep water--
Fathers mistrust them all.
Men are the worriers. It is difficult for them
To learn what they must learn:
How you have a journey to take and very likely,
For a while, will not return.
(Mary Reeves Mahoney)
Remarkable men are fathers of daughters.
They know things some men never learn:
like the meanings of flip, fall and tip;
and how to pin up a hem.
Fathers of girls are hardier. They survive
year of burned brownies, and sad
heavy cakes with shocking pink frosting.
They endure maulings of hugging and lap-sitting.
They drown mutely beneath
cacophonies of girl talk.
One reason they're hardier is they're
better exercised: lifting; getting tops off jars;
being porters and expert car packers.
They also run a late night taxi service.
Fathers of daughters acquire a marvelous savvy,
like noticing new dresses;
and when you look pretty, saying so.
They truly do comprehend
how at times being a girl is hard,
such as in little boats, or not dated for the class party.
But above all, fathers of daughters
like daughters,
and of fatherhood that must be what
the start and end is.
And every girl knows who her best friend is.
(Garnett Ann Schultz)
She's just a darling little girl,
as precious as a lamb,
She rules our home in many ways
that not another can.
She's in and out, and here and there,
throughout our busy day,
And many times I stop my work
because she wants to play.
She often has a special hug,
the sweetest baby kiss,
And when just she and I are there
I rate this treasured bliss.
But when her dad arrives at night,
you'll find her in a whirl,
She hasn't time for Mother then,
because she's Daddy's girl.
It's joy to see her laughing eyes,
her happy baby smile,
'Tis then I know that all is well
and life is worth the while,
So lovingly he'll pinch her nose
or try to steal a curl . . .
Just anything he does is right
because she's Daddy's girl.
I often marvel at the charms
that only dads possess,
Although I know within my heart
she doesn't love me less.
We tuck her into bed at night,
our one and only pearl
And 'cause I love her daddy too,
I'm proud she's Daddy's girl.
(Leonhard Dowty)
Our house is filled with many joys:
A playful pup, a pair of boys,
A fireside warm and cozy,
An easy chair soft and dozy,
Quilts and spreads from Grandma's attic,
Lots of gadgets automatic
That wash and whisk and whip and whirl--
And one enchanting little girl,
A quiet child with enormous eyes
As round as the world and blue as the skies,
A golden girl of exceptional beauty
With a rare and special sense of duty.
When she crawls into may lap and gives me a hug,
I'm useless as a doodlebug,
And when she kisses me upon the cheek,
The world is my oyster, so to speak.
Her mother thinks that I'm often inclined
To lose perspective, to be a bit blind,
But I really don't think it's entirely true--
I mean, honest and truly, her eyes are that blue!
And her laughter . . . it's like singing birds,
Temple bells . . . well, there are no words!
Surrounded by dolls (there are fifty or more),
She's a miniature mommy in a plaid pinafore,
Serving up tea and make-believe sweets
To make-believe ladies in make-believe seats,
Cleaning the tables and washing the dishes
As though cups and saucers were magical wishes.
Would that I could catch her a star,
Or put the moon in a jelly jar.
Would that I could capture a dream
Give her a mountain, a rainbow, a stream.
Like hundreds of fathers since time was hatched,
I find myself completely unlatched,
An easy ploy, as weak as water,
A willing pawn for my perfect daughter.
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
Between the dark and the day light,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of the feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alica and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In this Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round tower of my heart.
And there I will keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the wall shall crumble to ruin,
And molder in dust away!