Conversation Galante

I OBSERVE : " Our sentimental friend the moon! "
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
It may be Prester John's balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor travellers to their distress. "
She then: " How you digress! "

And I then: " Some one frames upon the keys
That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
The night and moonshine; music which we seize
To body forth our vacuity. "
She then: " Does this refer to me? "
" Oh, no, it is I who am inane.

" You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
The eternal enemy of the absolute,
Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
With your aid indifferent and imperious
At a stroke our mad poetics to confute — "
And — " Are we then so serious? "
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