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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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