Conversation Galante
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observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon!Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)It may be Prester John's balloonOr an old battered lantern hung aloftTo light poor travellers to their distress."She then: "How you digress!" And I then: "Some one frames upon the keysThat exquisite nocturne, with which we explainThe night and moonshine; music which we seizeTo 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 imperiousAt a stroke our mad poetics to confute--"And--"Are we then so serious?"
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