He is showing a man around his palace,
My Last Duchess
where he stops at this painting.
That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, Previous
Looking as if she were alive. I call Realistic
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands The artist
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra 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) The painting is normally covered by a
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, certain, but he has now opened it.
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not He is accusing her of being made glad by
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot other men.
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps Passionate red or rosy cheeks.
Fra 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, Annoyed by her flirtatiousness.
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er She finds joy in other easily.
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast, He wanted to be worshipped by her.
The dropping of the daylight in the West, Sunset
The bough of cherries some officious fool Men trying to impress her.
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 Accusation of being unfaithful, but no proof.
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name Big ego
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame Tune change to why would he lower himself.
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—which I have not—to make your will
He could have communicated his annoyance
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, to her.
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 Lower
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; She smiled at everyone the same as she
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands smiled to him, so he had her assassinated.
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet Talking about the painting now with no
The company below, then. I repeat, remorse.
The Count your master’s known munificence New wife’s family is rich.
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
My Last Duchess
where he stops at this painting.
That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, Previous
Looking as if she were alive. I call Realistic
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands The artist
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra 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) The painting is normally covered by a
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, certain, but he has now opened it.
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not He is accusing her of being made glad by
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot other men.
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps Passionate red or rosy cheeks.
Fra 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, Annoyed by her flirtatiousness.
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er She finds joy in other easily.
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast, He wanted to be worshipped by her.
The dropping of the daylight in the West, Sunset
The bough of cherries some officious fool Men trying to impress her.
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 Accusation of being unfaithful, but no proof.
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name Big ego
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame Tune change to why would he lower himself.
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—which I have not—to make your will
He could have communicated his annoyance
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, to her.
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 Lower
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; She smiled at everyone the same as she
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands smiled to him, so he had her assassinated.
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet Talking about the painting now with no
The company below, then. I repeat, remorse.
The Count your master’s known munificence New wife’s family is rich.
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
