Classic Poem

THE SAME CONTINUED
We may not meet. I could not for pride's sake
Dissemble further, and I suffer pain,
A palpable distinct and physical ache,
When our eyes meet by accident, and when
I hear you talk in your pathetic strain
Which always moved me. Only yesterday,
As I was standing with a crowd of men
In the long corridor, you came my way
And chanced to stop, and thus by chance I heard
A score of phrases uttered in that sad
Half--suppliant voice which once my spirit stirred
To its foundations. Yet your theme was glad--
Strangers your hearers. What was in these spells
To move me still? A trick, and nothing else!