The Last Duchess
Upon my neck a string of pearls lies still.
The trees outside blow with a gale as they will
And yet I sit – bitterly cold, not warm,
Nor sheltered ‘neath my husband's arm. The storm
Stares with present anguish, fraught with sympathy–
Wisdom lurks between. No shady cypress tree
Remains – Thou gift no imported roses at my hand,
no handpicked blue vervains nor strumming-band
This woman’s soul is not just so for you,
Burdened by my weight of care – you drew
A thankful gift. My gift is but painted face.
I gaze at Pandolf. What? Where shall I place?
Place my portrait? – After paint, I shall be naught
But that collector’s item. Look upon me, with fraught
And false civility - as the curtain falls and coffin lowers
I shan’t be laid to rest. Perhaps I will live on -
Entrapped, both item and a memory.
You’ll up and drawl – leering at my bosomed plea –
Speak to the crumbling paint and say you shall,
‘That’s my last duchess painted on the wall.’
And gaze will I, from so gathered place
Perdition spent in mere footlong space,
This sooty canvas mine own satin gown.
My! – have you not seen your finger crowned
Again since that fateful day? For thus,
By now, you’d know my rosy cheeks discussed
Not love with any servant boy. And on, prostrate
‘Paint must never hope to replicate…’
What? The greening liver spots upon your brow
And dare you, even, wonder why now
and not then you’d glide your hand along my cheek?
Such penitence for souls so dryly meek.
Away, you wrap your hand to chalice-side
This lacking clink of ring a stranger – snide
Remarks abound from richer clang of abbey bells;
My eyes do look on – whilst your dawny tells
Mine Scheele’s begs – Will’t you ever turn and gaze upon
This painting and not turn to salt? – On,
Move on, the candle fades – and if not burn I,
Why is it so you brought flame here? Thought I,
To remember me, you shouldn’t need drewn
no image further than from your own mind.
Perhaps to gaze between the satin shawn
You shall bring a friend, a lover? Pawn?
My faint flush will fall as your companion’s eye
Shall again roam my figure; and thereby
Call ‘At which room did such a woman sit?’
And on and on and on would he! But lit
By candlelight, his nightshirt he shall at last don -
Thoughts only of my father’s daughter drawn
he, not thou, hath reached the topmost bough of praise
Reserved for husbands – mayst Good Lord raze
All suffering brought by jealous hand and
plaintive eyes. My love, we wither on the sand,
And death, again, will leave it done.
For as you lie in englut paddock shunned –
My paint shalt crack and fey in light unscorned
And my death will be long after mourned. Born
Empyrean cities, my soul wilt never see – lost
To those impassioned thieves, your own vagrant race.
A heavenly woman makes no such case –
And yet, Adam made no heavenly Eve.
The cloaked serpent returns, but you shall not grieve.
So, I shall sit and watch as dusken sun
falls below the hills, and shadows run
away from fiercest lamp light that tints me
And such officious fools whose paint shall key
Sustain me, far longer than my husband ever could.
With this painting – and such with shallow breath
I know, at least he may love me more in death.