The little old table

Creak, little wood thing, creak,

When I touch you with elbow or knee;

That is the way you speak

Of the 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.