Edna St. Vincent Millay

…

…that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. Feast I drank at every vine. The last was like the first. I came upon no wine So wonderful as thirst. I gnawed at every root. I ate of every plant. I came upon no fruit So wonderful as want. Feed the grape and bean To the vinter and monger: I will lie down lean With my thirst and my hunger.