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?"