Conversation GalanteI observe: “Our sentimental friend the moonOr possibly (fantastic, I confess)It may be Prester John’s balloonOr an old battered lantern hung aloftTo light poor travellers to their distress.”She then: “How you digress!”And I then: “Some one frames upon the keysThat exquisite nocturne, with which we explainThe night and moonshine; music which we seizeTo body forth our own vacuity.”She then: “Does this refer to me?”“Oh no, it is I who am inane.”“You, madam, are the eternal humoristThe eternal enemy of the absolute,Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twistWith your air indifferent and imperiousAt a stroke our mad poetics to confute—”And—“Are we then so serious?”
I observe: “Our sentimental friend the moonOr possibly (fantastic, I confess)It may be Prester John’s balloonOr an old battered lantern hung aloftTo light poor travellers to their distress.”She then: “How you digress!”And I then: “Some one frames upon the keysThat exquisite nocturne, with which we explainThe night and moonshine; music which we seizeTo body forth our own vacuity.”She then: “Does this refer to me?”“Oh no, it is I who am inane.”“You, madam, are the eternal humoristThe eternal enemy of the absolute,Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twistWith your air indifferent and imperiousAt a stroke our mad poetics to confute—”And—“Are we then so serious?”