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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=336451" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Conversation Galante</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=336451" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon!<br>Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)<br>It may be Prester John's balloon<br>Or an old battered lantern hung aloft<br>To light poor travellers to their distress."<br>She then: "How you digress!"</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=336451" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And I then: "Some one frames upon the keys<br>That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain<br>The night and moonshine; music which we seize<br>To body forth our own vacuity."<br>She then: "Does this refer to me?"<br>"Oh no, it is I who am inane."</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=336451" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">"You, madam, are the eternal humorist,<br>The eternal enemy of the absolute,<br>Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!<br>With your aid indifferent and imperious<br>At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—"<br>And—"Are we then so serious?"</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=T.S.+Eliot">T.S. Eliot</a></strong></div>

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