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 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, 'Twas so unlike the crumb The birds and I had often shared In Nature's diningroom. The plenty hurt me, 'twas 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.
Emily DickinsonAfter great pain, a formal feeling comes โ The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs โ The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round โ Of Ground, or Air, or Ought โ A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone โ This is the Hour of Lead โ Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow โ First โ Chill โ then Stupor โ then the letting go โ
Emily DickinsonWe do not play on Gravesโ Because there isn't Roomโ Besidesโit isn't evenโit slants And People comeโ And put a Flower on itโ And hang their faces soโ We're fearing that their Hearts will dropโ And crush our pretty playโ And so we move as far As Enemiesโawayโ Just looking round to see how far It isโOccasionallyโ
Emily Dickinson