Sam Walter Foss Quotes
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Where shall we get religion? Beneath the open sky, the sphere of crystal silence surcharged with deity.. The midnight earth sends incense up, sweet with the breath of prayer -- Go out beneath the naked night and get religion there.
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Bring me men to match my mountains: Bring me men to match my plains: Men with empires in their purpose and new eras in their brains.
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The woods were made for the hunter of dreams...
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The woods were made for the hunters of dreams, The brooks for the fisher 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 the pine And thoughts in a flower-bell curled; And the thoughts that are blown with the scent of the fern Are as new and as old as the world.
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There are purple grapes in the Land of Git-Thare.
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W'en you see a man in woe, Walk right up and say hullo. Say hullo and how d'ye do, How's the world a-usin' you? . W'en you travel through the strange Country t'other side the range, Then the souls you've cheered will know Who you be, an' say hullo.
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I say the very things that make the greatest StirAn' the most interestin' things, are things that did n't occur.
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W'en you see a man in woe, Walk right up and say 'hullo'; Say "hullo" and "how d'ye do. How's the world a-usin' you?
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Seek not for fresher founts afar, just drop you bucket where you are.
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Let me live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man.
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Strew gladness on the paths of men-You will not pass this way again.
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Seek not for fresher founts afar, Just drop your bucket where you are; And while the ship right onward leaps, Uplift it from the exhaustless deeps. Parch not your life with dry despair; The stream of hope flow everywhere-- So under every sky and star, Just drop your bucket where you are.
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A hundred thousand men were led By one calf near three centuries dead; They followed still his crooked way And lost a hundred years a day; For thus such reverence is lent To well established precedent.
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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.
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The woods were made for the hunters of dreams, The brooks for the fishers of song; To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game The streams and the woods belong.
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One day through the primeval wood A calf walked home as good calves should; But made a trail all bent askew, A crooked trail as all calves do. . . . . And men two centuries and a half Trod in the footsteps of that calf.
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Just drop your bucket where you are.
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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.
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