Hunger

I HAD been hungry all the years;My noon had come, to dine;I, trembling, drew the table near,And touched the curious wine.

'T was this on tables I had seen,When turning, hungry, lone,I looked in windows, for the wealthI could not hope to own.

I did not know the ample bread,'T was so unlike the crumbThe birds and I had often sharedIn Nature's dining-room.

The plenty hurt me, 't was 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.