Conversation Galante by T.S. Eliot — Read

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? "