The eyes of strangers are cold as snowdrops, downcast, folded and seldom visited. And stranger's acts cry but vaguely drift across our attention's smoke sieged afternoons and to live there among strangers,
calls for teashop behaviors:
setting down the cup, leaving the right tip.
Kepping the soul unjostled,
the pocket unpicked,
the fancies lurid,
and the treasure buried
{Strangers-Philip Larkin 20 May 1950}