By Sara Teasdale

PEOPLE that I meet and pass
In the city’s broken roar,
Faces that I lose so soon
And have never found before,
Do you know how much you tell
In the meeting of our eyes,
How ashamed I am, and sad
To have pierced your poor disguise?
Secrets rushing without sound
Crying from your hiding places—
Let me go, I cannot bear
The sorrow of the passing faces.
—People in the restless street,
Can it be, oh can it be
In the meeting of our eyes
That you know as much of me?

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