 | 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.
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—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 | |