Seek not for fresher founts afar, just drop you bucket where you are.

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.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road and be a friend to man.

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the place of their self-content There are souls like stars that dwell apart, In a fellowless firmament There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths Where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.

I say the very things that make the greatest StirAn' the most interestin' things, are things that did n't occur.

Strew gladness on the paths of men-You will not pass this way again.

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.

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.

Just drop your bucket where you are.

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.