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!

You, little table, she brought -

Brought me with her own hand,

As she looked at me with a thought

That I did not understand.

- Whoever owns it anon,

And hears it, will never know

What a history hangs upon

This creak from long ago.