His hunger, bidding stretch again165
His hands—but all in vain. For now,
When it has lured him on to hope,
And mocked its fill, the boughs recede,
And the whole ripe harvest of the wood
Is snatched far out of reach.
Then comes a raging thirst more fierce
Than hunger, which inflames his blood,170
And with its parching fires burns up
Its moisture. There the poor wretch stands,