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I had been hungry all the years-My noon had come, to dine-I, trembling, drew the table nearAnd touched the curious wine. ‘Twas this on tables I had seenWhen turning, hungry, lone,I looked in windows, for the wealthI could not hope to own. I did not know the ample bread,’Twas so unlike the crumbThe birds and I had often sharedIn Nature’s diningroom. The plenty hurt me, ’twas so new,–Myself felt ill and odd,As berry of a mountain bushTransplanted to the road. Nor was I hungry; so I foundThat hunger was a wayOf persons outside windows,The entering takes away.
