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.
- by Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928), "The Little Old Table", appears in Late Lyrics and Earlier with Many Other Verses, first published 1922 [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by (Edward) Benjamin Britten (1913 - 1976), "The little old table", op. 52 no. 4 (1953), published 1954 [high voice, piano], from Winter words, no. 4. [text verified 1 time]
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
Text added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:01:31
Line count: 12
Word count: 72