The House by the Side of the Road       

By Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911) 
 

 
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn 
  In the place of their self-content; 
There are souls like stars that dwell apart,, 
  In a fellowless 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 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 will not sit in the scorner’s 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 on with the ardor of hope, 
  The men who are faint with the strife, 
But I do not turn away from their smiles or 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-gladdened meadows ahead, 
  And mountains of wearisome height; 
And the road passes on through the long afternoon 
  And stretches away to the night. 
And 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 should I sit in the scorner’s 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.