After Robert Browning's 'My Last Duchess'

That’s my artist-wife’s drawing by the wall,
Looking so like her work: alive. I call
That person a marvel, now: Her bony hands
Working busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you stare and look at her? I said
‘Marvel’ by necessity, for we never need
Others, like strangers that plant disrespect,
The inability and slight of lesser art,
But to the artist I turn (since none but her
Is the quality raised that must be shared)
And more enjoy as she creates, as she must,
A medium as to look like colour-dust,
And alchemy, to die for. Sir, ‘t was not
Her works’ presence only, called that spot
Of joy in life’s corner: no, perhaps
The artist chanced to say ‘life overlaps
the face of art when art is good’ or ‘Art
Must ever hope to match the heart,
Half-pumped, that lives within:’ such stuff
Was good, methinks now, and has enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She has
A heart … how shall I say? … unsurpassed,
Never matched, and her eye is everywhere.
Sir, ’tis all one! My favourite artist,
The purpose of daylight on the list,
The lift of energy from delicious fruit
Picked in the garden by her, the cute
Children made to love each country stile,
She showed them green lands – both and each
- That cross from fields out of reach,
To others, gated, at home. She taught
Them what she knew from others she aught
The gift of life as one creatively retold
With artistic lift. Who’d want any else
Than this aspiration? Even if of no skill
In art – (such as with me) – we must thrill
Quite sure to such a one, and say, ‘One colour,
Alone, from you, makes all colour duller,
Or some such thing’ – and if you halt
From giving so, without such seeming fault,
There would be lack to this, and much else,
- E’en dearth in breath and laughing, less
Eyes, yes. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The masterpiece, then. I repeat,
The husband your equal’s known pages
Are ample evidence that much respect rages,
And we are, together, unsurrendered;
Though our fair children’s selves, as rendered
In your work, are enough, we have far to run,
And keep going, ma’am. Notice the sun,
Explaining all, like a sage, even through dusk,
And with your craft draw o beauteous musk.