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:
“Someone 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 air indifferent and imperious At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—”
And—“Are we then so serious?”