The greatest poem on portrait painting EVER
 

This has got to be the greatest poem on portraiture ever written (circa 1842). I'll simply post it for now- I'll spare you all my usual ranting until anyone interested has had a read- then I'll start waxing lyrical (though, alas, not as lyrically as Browning) Enjoy!


My Last Duchess

by
Robert Browning

That's my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands
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,
That depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain drawn for you, but I) [10]
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
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 [20]
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, [30]
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 a 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 [40]
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse
- E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
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;
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 [50]
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.

Cian,

It's left to us Irishmen ...

The following is an excerpt from the much larger poem which can be found here:

http://faculty.stonehill.edu/geverett/rb/sarto.htm

Browning was truly connected to the painter.

Robert Browning's

ANDREA DEL SARTO (CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER")

90 I, painting from myself and to myself,
91 Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame
92 Or their praise either. Somebody remarks
93 Morello's outline there is wrongly traced,
94 His hue mistaken; what of that? or else,
95 Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that?
96 Speak as they please, what does the mountain care?
97 Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
98 Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-grey,
99 Placid and perfect with my art: the worse!
100 I know both what I want and what might gain,
101 And yet how profitless to know, to sigh
102 "Had I been two, another and myself,
103 "Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt.
104 Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth
105 The Urbinate who died five years ago.
106 ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.)
107 Well, I can fancy how he did it all,
108 Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see,
109 Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him,
110 Above and through his art--for it gives way;
111 That arm is wrongly put--and there again--
112 A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines,
113 Its body, so to speak: its soul is right,
114 He means right--that, a child may understand.
115 Still, what an arm! and I could alter it:
116 But all the play, the insight and the stretch--
117 (Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out?
118 Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul,
119 We might have risen to Rafael, I and you!
120 Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think--
121 More than I merit, yes, by many times.
122 But had you--oh, with the same perfect brow,
123 And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
124 And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird
125 The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare --
126 Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!

I'm truly enjoying these. . . and waiting for Steven, now!

I'm prepared for waxing.

Top Ten
 

Rudyard Kipling - When Earth's Last Picture is Painted

When earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colors have faded and the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest, and, faith we shall need it--lie down for an aeon or two,

And those that were good shall be happy; they shall sit in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten league canvas with brushes of comet hair.

They shall find real saints to draw from--Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;

They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,

But each for the joy of working, and each in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are.