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.