I loved her, God knows I did,
her pale oval face
her shining eyes,
her tumbled tangling hair
just drove me
to distraction.
Jane, dear Jane, just happened,
a pretty prostitute
met by chance;
her clever fondling fingers
gave me sexual
satisfaction.
Dizzy, drugged with love,
I painted
both of them,
many times over, paintings
that scandalized, met critical
harsh reaction
Lizzie I married, she died,
and so did our baby girl
(whose footsteps I heard
for the rest of my life);
Jane understood, restored me
from inaction.
My poems, buried with Lizzie,
I couldn't recall:
I began to fret, wilfully
opened her sleeping grave,
reclaimed the little book, reeking
of putrefaction.
These things I did, I freely confess,
I was an artist!
I followed my art, unwilling
to assist in the life of my time,
careless of young women, ignoring
human decency.
Biographical details on DGR:
http://www.iath.virginia.edu/rossetti/dgrbio.html
