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.
