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

    Hers

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