Velasquez took a pliant knife And scraped his palette clean; He said, "I lead a dog's own life Painting a king and queen." He cleaned his palette with oily rags And oakum from Seville wharves; "I am sick of painting painted hags And bad ambiguous dwarfs. The sky is silver, the clouds are pearl, Their locks are looped with rain. I will not paint Maria's girl For all the money in Spain." He washed his face in water cold, His hands in turpentine; He squeezed out colour like coins of gold And colour like drops of wine. Each colour lay like a little pool On the polished cedar wood; Clear and pale and ivory-cool Or dark as solitude. He burnt the rags in the fireplace And leaned from the window high; He said, "I like that gentleman's face Who wears his cap awry." This is the gentleman, there he stands, Castilian, sombre-caped, With arrogant eyes, and narrow hands Miraculously shaped. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GOD AND MY COUNTRY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS ON SIR PALMES FAIRBORNE'S TOMB, IN WESTERMINSTER ABBEY by JOHN DRYDEN IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 30 by ALFRED TENNYSON NUPTIAL SONG by JOHN BYRNE LEICESTER WARREN ON GOOD FRIDAY, THE DAY OF OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION by PHILIP AYRES THE WATERMILL by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: TO CORDELIA by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |