There are hermit souls that live withdrawn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 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 with the ardor of hope

The men who are faint with the strife,

But I turn not away from their smiles--

nor their tears--

Both parts 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;

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 where the race of men go by--

They are good, they are bad, they are week, 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 beside of the road

And be a friend to man.

Sam Walter Foss