Poem by 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!

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.

1. The Paphian Ball
2. After the Death of a Friend
3. The Superseded
4. To Carrey Clavel
5. The Hatband

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