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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Little Old Table 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. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1503 |
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