Sara Teasdale

(8 August 1884 – 29 January 1933 / Missouri)

Faces


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?

Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002

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