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