Thursday, May 28, 2009

My Last Pansies



When I wrote the title up there, Browning's "My Last Duchess" came to mind. It was never a favorite of mine, but reading it just now, this part seemed appropriate, as I have been told I am bit like this, though not by people who minded, but kind of liked this quality.

Anyway, I think the pansies are just beautiful, and I can never get rid of them to plant new flowers without saving the last ones in a vase on the table. (Obviously, these had not yet made it to the table.)

And now Browning:

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, 'twas all one! My favor 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.

7 comments:

Molly Underwood said...

Your flowers are beautiful, Sheila.
Isn't is amazing that they can bring such sweet joy to us? Even, and sometimes especially, the tiny ones.

JCS said...

It's good to see you're still at it.

Sheila said...

Oh, dear, who are you JCS? I probably should know, but all that's coming to me is the name of a musical....

JCS said...

I'm just a stranger in a strange land.

Probably, a long lost land.

Sorry for the intrusion, Mrs. Vamplin.

Sheila said...

Oh, of course I know who you are, just didn't recognize the middle initial there. It is a strange land we live in. And not an intrusion at all. I'm glad to see you here.

Lucy said...

That's a troubling poem though, isn't it? She's not happy, is she, or she keeps up the thing of being pleased but it's a kind of shield around her and he hates it... I struggle with Browning, need to bend myself to him one day I think.

But your pansy photo is a delight!

Sheila said...

Lucy, it's been so long since I really (really) read that poem, and I don't recall anything about how people interpret it. To me it's clear in the poem that the speaker interprets her as shallow or superficial or something, but then can we trust his take on human nature, being a person who would kill his own wife? I rather think she was someone who loved life but didn't cater to his narcissistic need for attention, to be the center of her universe, and so his jealousy made him resentful of what was simply a young woman easily delighted by life.

And I could be completely wrong!