«Brown Studies» — Poems by G. P. Brown, Punta Arenas, Chile, 1940


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The Book

Publisher's Acknowledgment Author's Foreword


Could I forget? The Cross What Profit a Man? May 1940 June 1940 Hyde Park Orators Are You Doing Your Bit? Home The Haven of Love Afterglow The Six Dolls Forget-me-not My Little Ship Mother's Day The Easy Way Mother Flea The Stockings' Lament The Gamble Who Was It? A Mother's Right Teach me to be Humble


Duncan Campbell


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
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
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
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
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

Passing by the window on my left, I chanced
       to peep inside;
"Granny's" empty chair was drawn up near the
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".