I had been hungry all the years;
My noon had come, to dine;
I, trembing, drew the table near;
And touched the curious wine.
'T was this on tables I had seen,
When turning, hungry, home.
I looked in windows for the wealth,
I could not hope to own.
I did not know the ample bread,
'T was so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature's dinning room.
The plenty hurt me
'T was so new
Myself felt ill and odd
As a berry from a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road.
Nor was I hungry, So I found
That hunger was a way,
Of persons outside windowns
The entering takes away.
- by Emily Dickenson (1830-1886)
My noon had come, to dine;
I, trembing, drew the table near;
And touched the curious wine.
'T was this on tables I had seen,
When turning, hungry, home.
I looked in windows for the wealth,
I could not hope to own.
I did not know the ample bread,
'T was so unlike the crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature's dinning room.
The plenty hurt me
'T was so new
Myself felt ill and odd
As a berry from a mountain bush
Transplanted to the road.
Nor was I hungry, So I found
That hunger was a way,
Of persons outside windowns
The entering takes away.
- by Emily Dickenson (1830-1886)
