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.