Poems (Eliot, 1926)/Conversation Galante
For other versions of this work, see Conversation Galante.
CONVERSATION GALANTE
I 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: "Someone 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 aid indifferent and imperiousAt a stroke our mad poetics to confute—" And—"Are we then so serious?"