And so I am going to write today about Sam Walter Foss.
No, Sam Walter Foss is not the person who built the church. No, he’s not the person who pastors the church. And no, he’s not the person who wrote the hymn. So who is he? I will tell you who he is, or rather, who he was.
Sam Walter Foss was a librarian. He was a poet. He was an editor for the Boston Globe in the nineteenth century. He was born in 1858 and died in 1911. Many of us of a certain age had to memorize his best-known poem in school. Thanks to Jeannelle’s post, I now know that on the middle step of the three steps leading to the front door of The Little Brown Church in the Vale in Nashua, Iowa, is engraved a line from that very poem: “Let me live by the side of the road and be a friend to man.” His name follows, but it is misspelled. The line chiseled in the step is credited, strangely, to Sam Fosse.
The poem, in case you never heard of it (and I suppose many younger people have not), is entitled “The House By The Side Of The Road.” It is not great poetry. The critics would call it homely, homespun, folksy, sentimental, simple, maudlin, sing-songy and lots of other adjectives (vapid, banal), and even though many of their criticisms are true, I love it.
Here it is. Can you spot the Biblical references?
The House By The Side Of The Road
by Sam Walter Foss
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn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 the 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
Nor 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 and 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.
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,
Where 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.
Actually, here’s the house I had in mind:
