ring

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

`Twas this on table 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,
`twas so unlike the crumb,
the birds and I had often shared
in Nature's dining room.

The plenty hurt me, `twas so new,
Myself felt ill and odd,
as berry of a mountain bush
transplanted near the sod.

Nor was I hungry; so I found
that hunger was a way
of persons outside windows,
the entering takes away.

Emily Dickinson