I had been hungry all the years-
My noon had come, to dine-
I, trembling, drew the table near
And touched the curious wine. 'Twas this on tables I had seen
When turning, hungry, lone,
I looked in windows, for the wealth
I could not hope to own. I did not know the ample bread,
'Twas so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature's diningroom. The plenty hurt me, 'twas so new,--
Myself felt ill and odd,
As berry of a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road. Nor was I hungry; so I found
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.
My noon had come, to dine-
I, trembling, drew the table near
And touched the curious wine. 'Twas this on tables I had seen
When turning, hungry, lone,
I looked in windows, for the wealth
I could not hope to own. I did not know the ample bread,
'Twas so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature's diningroom. The plenty hurt me, 'twas so new,--
Myself felt ill and odd,
As berry of a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road. Nor was I hungry; so I found
That hunger was a way
Of persons outside windows,
The entering takes away.
( Emily Dickinson )
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