Collected poems of Thomas Hardy With a portrait |
 |
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
|
|
|
|
 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE LITTLE OLD TABLE
Creak, little wood thing, creak,
When I touch you with elbow or knee;
That is the way you speak
Of one who gave you to me!
When I touch you with elbow or knee;
That is the way you speak
Of one who gave you to me!
You, little table, she brought—
Brought me with her own hand,
As she looked at me with a thought
That I did not understand.
Brought me with her own hand,
As she looked at me with a thought
That I did not understand.
614
—Whoever owns it anon,
And hears it, will never know
What a history hangs upon
This creak from long ago.
And hears it, will never know
What a history hangs upon
This creak from long ago.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |