No Lassoing

The Unromantic Moon:

The radar pinged the moon one starlit night —
"Good evening!" the operator meant.
Less than "good evening" did the satellite
Reply — its echo quite indifferent. 

Only the echo! Could it be that she
Had never trod the court of our conventions?
And learned the art in her simplicity
To ask — "My lord, just what are your intentions?" 

Oho, ye lovers! Many centuries
Have written the inscriptions of your tender
Pledges — the cardiagrams of your disease —
To that pale maiden with a neuter gender. 

And so nocturnes might have been sung forever
By swains and courtiers equally dejected,
Had not a new Minerva chanted — "Never
Have lover-lunar orbits intersected."
Take up your lyres, but tune your orchard trills
To other ears than those of Heaven's queen:
Dead Letter Offices are crater sills
Surrendering to the prose of a machine. 

E. J. Pratt.