Poemsby Emily Dickinson


 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 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 dining-room. 
 The plenty hurt me, 't was 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.