I observe: 'Our sentimental friend the moon! <br />Or possibly (fantastic, I confess) <br />It may be Prester John's balloon <br />Or an old battered lantern hung aloft <br />To light poor travellers to their distress.' <br /> She then: 'How you digress!' <br /> <br />And I then: 'Some one frames upon the keys <br />That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain <br />The night and moonshine; music which we seize <br />To body forth our vacuity.' <br /> She then: 'Does this refer to me?' <br /> 'Oh no, it is I who am inane.' <br /> <br />'You, madam, are the eternal humorist, <br />The eternal enemy of the absolute, <br />Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist! <br />With your aid indifferent and imperious <br />At a stroke our mad poetics to confute--' <br /> And--'Are we then so serious?'<br /><br />Thomas Stearns Eliot<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/conversation-galante/
