Cupid and Psyche met one night.
After the Opera Ball,
He, with his smart top hat, and she
Warmly wrapped in sables.
‘Princess,’ he said, ‘What brilliant luck
To meet this way once more.
How long ago it was when we danced
Through the spring at Monte Carlo.’
She smiled a little, then she said:
‘That was a different girl’
When we were young we both played chess
And I was always the winner.’
He laughed, and said: ‘Of course, of course,
I well remember it.
But then you had two brilliant wings,
Which now you are not wearing.’
‘And you,’ she said, ‘had a horrid bow
With arrows much too blunt.’
‘Quite true,’ he said, ‘but they were lost
In the recent change of government.’
A millionaire came up, and said:
‘Darling, the car is here.’
‘My husband,’ she said, ‘whose well-known name
I never can remember.’
Cupid bowed, brought out his card:
‘I’m not in the book,’ he said.
‘But should you have some objet d’art
To sell, give me a tinkle.’
Psyche drew her sables tight,
Then made a moue, and said:
‘Darling, the car! It’s much too late
To talk to an antique-dealer.’
Cupid kissed her frozen hand.
She felt his lips like ice
Then in a long, long car she passed
Into the midnight traffic.
So they met, but just to part.
Not a romantic tale.
But in these days what would you have -
Truth, or another fable?
July 5th, 1974