POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
The maimed may pause and breathe,And glance securely round.The deer invites no longerThan it eludes the hound.
LXXVI
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 wealthI could not hope to own.
I did not know the ample bread,’T was so unlike the crumbThe birds and I had often sharedIn Nature’s dining-room.
The plenty hurt me, ’t was so new,—Myself felt ill and odd,As berry of a mountain bushTransplanted to the road.
Nor was I hungry; so I foundThat hunger was a wayOf persons outside windows,The entering takes away.
[42]
