There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellow-less firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran;
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by;
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorners seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban;
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life;
The men who press with the arbor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,
Both part of an infinite plan;
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladden meadows ahead
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road;
It's here the race of men go by.
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong.
Wise, foolish – so am I;
Then why would I seat in the scorners seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
and be a friend to man.
Sam Walter Foss
1858 - 1911
