Sam Walter Foss
Born
in Candia, NH, The United States
June 19, 1857
Died
February 26, 1911
Website
Genre
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The Calf Path
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Dreams in Homespun
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published
2008
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44 editions
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Whiffs From Wild Meadows
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The library alcove and other library writings
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published
1987
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Back Country Poems
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published
2009
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58 editions
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Songs of the Average Man
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published
2013
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24 editions
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The Song of the Library Staff
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published
1906
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8 editions
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Songs of War and Peace
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published
2015
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33 editions
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Hullo!' (in The Wit and Humor of America, Vol 09 )
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The Poster-Painter's Masterpiece
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“There are hermit souls that live withdrawn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 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 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.”
―
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 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 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.”
―
“The woods were made for the hunter of dreams,
The brooks for the fishers of song;
To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game
The streams and the woods belong.
There are thoughts that moan from the soul of pine
And thoughts in a flower bell curled;
And the thoughts that are blown with scent of the fern
Are as new and as old as the world.”
―
The brooks for the fishers of song;
To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game
The streams and the woods belong.
There are thoughts that moan from the soul of pine
And thoughts in a flower bell curled;
And the thoughts that are blown with scent of the fern
Are as new and as old as the world.”
―
“Tis not the greatest singer
Who tries the loftiest themes,
He is the true joy bringer,
Who tells his simplest dreams.
He is the greatest poet,
Who will renounce all art,
And take his heart and show it
To every other heart;
Who writes no learned riddle,
But sings his simplest rune,
Takes his heart strings for a fiddle,
And plays his easiest tune
~ Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911)
[From Back Country Poems, 1892]”
― Back Country Poems
Who tries the loftiest themes,
He is the true joy bringer,
Who tells his simplest dreams.
He is the greatest poet,
Who will renounce all art,
And take his heart and show it
To every other heart;
Who writes no learned riddle,
But sings his simplest rune,
Takes his heart strings for a fiddle,
And plays his easiest tune
~ Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911)
[From Back Country Poems, 1892]”
― Back Country Poems
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