| That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, |
| Looking as if she were alive. I call |
| That piece a wonder, now : Frà Pandolf’s hands |
| Worked busily a day, and there she stands. |
| Will’t please you sit and look at her ? I said |
| ‘Frà Pandolf’ by design, for never read |
| Strangers like you that pictured countenance, |
| The depth and passion of its earnest glance, |
| But to myself they turned (since none puts by |
| The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) |
| And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, |
| How such a glance came there ; so, not the first |
| Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’t was not |
| Her husband’s presence only, called that spot |
| Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek : perhaps |
| Frà Pandolf chanced to say ‘Her mantle laps |
| Over my lady’s wrist too much,’ or ‘Paint |
| Must never hope to reproduce the faint |
| Half-flush that dies along her throat :’ such stuff |
| Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough |
| For calling up that spot of joy. She had |
| A heart―how shall I say ?―too soon made glad, |
| Too easily impressed ; she liked whate’er |
| She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. |
| Sir, ’t was all one! My favour at her breast, |
| The dropping of the daylight in the West, |
| The bough of cherries some officious fool |
| Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule |
| She rode with round the terrace―all
and each |
| Would draw from her alike the approving speech, |
| Or blush, at least. She thanked men,―good!
but thanked |
| Somehow―I know not
how―as if she ranked |
| My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name |
| With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame |
| This sort of trifling? Even had you skill |
| In speech―(which I
have not)―to make your will |
| Quite clear to such an one, and say, ‘Just this |
| Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss, |
| Or there exceed the mark’―and
if she let |
| Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set |
| Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, |
| ―E’en then would be some stooping ; and I choose |
| Never to stoop. Of sir, she smiled, no doubt, |
| Whene’er I passed her ; but who passed without |
| Much the same smile? This grew ; I gave commands ; |
| Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands |
| As if alive. Will’t please you rise ? We’ll meet
|
| The company below, then. I repeat, |
| The Count your master’s known munificence |
| Is ample warrant that no just pretence |
| Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ; |
| Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed |
| At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go |
| Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, |
| Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, |
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
|
| Robert Browning |
Classic Poems |
| |
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[ A Toccata of Galuppi's ] [ Epilogue to Asolando ] [ Confessions ] [ Home Thoughts from Abroad ] [ Love among the Ruins ] [ Two in the Campagna ] [ Meeting at Night ] [ Love in a Life ] [ Home Thoughts from the Sea ] [ The Lost Leader ] [ My Last Duchess ] |
