It is not easy to live and toil Where the hurrying throngs go by: There are choking dust-clouds that fret and soil, There are clatterings harsh and nigh, There are jostlings and fightings and discords dire In the turbulent caravan, -- But he "lived in a house by the side of the road, And was a friend to man." There are other houses, on the hill, That are richer and finer far, Where all of the fruit of the world's proud skill, Its ease and its comforts are; While here in the valley the homes are built On a cheap and uniform plan, -- Yet he "lived in a house by the side of the road, And was a friend to man." It is hard for a poet-soul to live On the edge of a rattling street, Where the crass and the crude and the primitive And the coarse and the ugly meet; He would rather dwell on a mountain-top And the far horizon scan, -- But he "lived in a house by the side of the road. And was a friend to man." O brother; now you have passed away, And we see where you lived and died, How much of the soil of our common clay Is graciously glorified! Like you we brood on the homely work Of the commonplace artisan, Till we would live by the side of the road, And be the friends of man. |