In the inane, till one, more steadfast-small,
Persists, grows luminous, letting penetrate
Some likeness of your shape, and of your face
Some strange reflected charm: I grope to find
A hand with mine in the resisting space,
Hear my tongue utter what no thought designed,
Weak ineffectual words, unheedful of replies—
Questions of tickets, luggage, urge and swarm—
But far beneath all this, in secret lies
An infant consciousness, yet feebly warm