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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

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 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.