‘And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emerge / The loveliest moon, that ever silver’d o’er / A shell for Neptune’s goblet.’” “You cannot use Keats!” I laughed. “He’s a Romantic poet—it’s three hundred years too soon.” “‘She did soar / So passionately bright, my dazzled soul / Commingling with her argent spheres did roll / Through clear and cloudy, even when she went / At last into a dark and vapoury tent,’” he exclaimed dramatically, pulling me into his arms.
