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?"
T.S. Eliot