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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPRING'S NEBRASKA by KAREN SWENSON BATTLE HYMN OF THE RUSSIAN REPUBLIC by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE RETIREMENT; TO MR. IZAAK WALTON by CHARLES COTTON COUNT THAT DAY LOST by MARY ANN EVANS THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS by THOMAS HOOD |