An old and
lonely woman,
Once lived next door to me.
I never knew how old she was,
But I'd say 'bout ninety-three.
She sat swayed from dawn to dusk
In her antique rocking chair,
And gently stroked each careful knot
In her long, white ropes of hair.
One day, as I was passing by
Her frail voice called to me.
She asked if I could talk awhile,
And have a cup of tea.
Her face wore years of hardship,
Deep wrinkles and a frown.
Her fingers were all knotted
But her hair looked soft as down.
"What a lovely lass," she uttered,
"How nice it is to find
|A fair young maid who will give away
A moment of her time."
"Such lovely golden curls you have.
Never cut them, do you hear!
I've kept my own since the age of twelve,
And none ever saw a shear!"
"You never cut your hair, "I asked?"
"Not in four score and three.
"You see, "she said, "each braided knot
Is like my rosary."
"These long braids tell a story,
Like the rings of an old oak tree,
And when I'm feeling lonely,
Back in time, each knot takes me."
She stroked the first link in her chain
And told me it was there,
She met the beau who loved to run
His fingers through her hair.
The second knot, she fondeled,
"And about this point, "she said,
"We fell in love, and pledged our troth...,
This was the day we wed."
"The next nine links that follow
Are the children that we bore,
Thou, most have gone before me,
Where they live forever more."
Each, I held and kissed
And dried their tears
In this same old rocking chair,
And each tiny hand,
Would embrace each strand
Of my golden locks of hair.
"This final knot, "she whispered,
"was the last I was to grow,
For this is where I lost my love,
A long, long time ago."
"I know my day is coming,
And soon, it is my hope,
When He calls me up to Heaven,
These braids will be my rope."
"So, you see my fair young maiden,
How priceless hair can be?
Within each braid, each silver knot,
Lives Golden memories."
