T H E   H A V E N   O F   L O V E

There's a little winding road, far away from
       traffic roar,
Free from tourists - and the signposts by the
       way,
And it leads to just a cottage with a very
       humble door;
In the cottage lived a lady, old and grey

How I loved that dear old winding road - that
       quaint old cottage there,
With the hedges in the summer decked with
       flowers;
Even now, my heart beats faster, when I think
       of that old chair,
And the sweet old lady sitting there for hours.

"Granny Smith", we used to call her - every day;
Ever knitting - knitting - knitting, clicking needles
       - only noise;
With a smile she always stopped us on our way.

In the winter when the days were cold, and
       biting winds were raw,
She would sometimes sit us down before the
       fire;
Wrap us up with warm and cosy scarves before
       we left the door;
Made by busy fingers never known to tire.

As the years crept on - to manhood grown, we
       drifted far apart;
The winding lane deserted by us all;
Only dear old "Granny" stayed there - with her
       warm and loving heart,
Ever waiting - hoping someday we would call.

Many times I thought of "Granny Smith", and
       longed to see her smile;
When my own grey hairs were daily getting
thin;
Just to watch her busy fingers - that alone
would be worthwhile;
Creep on tip-toe - open door, and just peep in.

After many years of wandering, down the lane
       I went at last,
With all eagerness I to the cottage came,
But the door I loved was closed to all - "Granny's"
       knitting days were passed;
'Twas not meant that one so good could e'er
       remain.

Passing by the window on my left, I chanced
       to peep inside;
"Granny's" empty chair was drawn up near the
       fire;
On the table heaps of woolly scarves - all stacked
       up side by side,
Made by busy fingers never known to tire.

With hat in hand I crept inside, and knelt be-
       fore her chair,
And offered up my thanks for all she'd done;
"Granny" must have heard me praying, for she
       seemed to sit right there,
And I heard her whisper: "Worry not my son".

Stumbling blindly from that cottage dear, and
       down the winding lane,
All decked with flowers, as in days of old,
I wandered to the Churchyard near - some shred
       of peace to gain;
My thoughts with "Granny", and her fireside cold.

In sheltered nook I found the mound - 'neath
       which our "Granny" lay,
Protected from the blasts of winter's cold,
And read the message from the boys, on
       "Granny's" tombstone grey:-
"Here lies a lady with a heart of gold".

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