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?