Benjamin Britten — Winter Words Op. 52: 4. The Little Old Table

Creak, creak, little wood thing, little wood thing, creak, creak When I touch you with elbow or knee; That is the way you speak, speak, the way you speak Of the one who gave you to me! You, 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