In "Pictor Ignotus" (one of Robert Browning's trademark dramatic monologues—poems spoken by characters, like speeches from a play), an anonymous Italian Renaissance painter laments what he could have been. Unlike the bright "youth" whom everyone seems to "praise so" these days (probably a nod to Raphael), this speaker never quite achieved greatness. This thought is all the more painful to the speaker because he knows how much a great artwork can mean to the world. Whether through his own timidity, his unadmitted lesser talent, or the pettiness of the art world, this speaker will remain a "Pictor Ignotus": an unknown painter. This meditation on art, failure, self-deception, and regret first appeared in the 1845 collection Dramatic Romances and Lyrics, the seventh volume of Browning's multivolume work Bells and Pomegranates.
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Florence, 15—
1I could have painted pictures like that youth's
2Ye praise so. How my soul springs up! No bar
3Stayed me—ah, thought which saddens while it soothes!
4—Never did fate forbid me, star by star,
5To outburst on your night with all my gift
6Of fires from God: nor would my flesh have shrunk
7From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift
8And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk
9To the centre, of an instant; or around
10Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan
11The license and the limit, space and bound,
12Allowed to truth made visible in man.
13And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw,
14Over the canvas could my hand have flung,
15Each face obedient to its passion's law,
16Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue;
17Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood,
18A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace,
19Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood
20Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place;
21Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up,
22And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved—
23O human faces, hath it spilt, my cup?
24What did ye give me that I have not saved?
25Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!)
26Of going—I, in each new picture—forth,
27As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell,
28To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North,
29Bound for the calmly-satisfied great State,
30Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went,
31Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight,
32Through old streets named afresh from the event,
33Till it reached home, where learned age should greet
34My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct
35Above his hair, lie learning at my feet!—
36Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked
37With love about, and praise, till life should end,
38And then not go to heaven, but linger here,
39Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend—
40The thought grew frightful, 'twas so wildly dear!
41But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights
42Have scared me, like the revels through a door
43Of some strange house of idols at its rites!
44This world seemed not the world it was before:
45Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped
46. . . Who summoned those cold faces that begun
47To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped
48Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun,
49They drew me forth, and spite of me . . . enough!
50These buy and sell our pictures, take and give,
51Count them for garniture and household-stuff,
52And where they live needs must our pictures live
53And see their faces, listen to their prate,
54Partakers of their daily pettiness,
55Discussed of—"This I love, or this I hate,
56This likes me more, and this affects me less!"
57Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles
58My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint
59These endless cloisters and eternal aisles
60With the same series, Virgin, Babe and Saint,
61With the same cold calm beautiful regard—
62At least no merchant traffics in my heart;
63The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward
64Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart;
65Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine
66While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke,
67They moulder on the damp wall's travertine,
68'Mid echoes the light footstep never woke.
69So, die my pictures! surely, gently die!
70O youth, men praise so,—holds their praise its worth?
71Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry?
72Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth?
Florence, 15—
1I could have painted pictures like that youth's
2Ye praise so. How my soul springs up! No bar
3Stayed me—ah, thought which saddens while it soothes!
4—Never did fate forbid me, star by star,
5To outburst on your night with all my gift
6Of fires from God: nor would my flesh have shrunk
7From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift
8And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk
9To the centre, of an instant; or around
10Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan
11The license and the limit, space and bound,
12Allowed to truth made visible in man.
13And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw,
14Over the canvas could my hand have flung,
15Each face obedient to its passion's law,
16Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue;
17Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood,
18A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace,
19Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood
20Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place;
21Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up,
22And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved—
23O human faces, hath it spilt, my cup?
24What did ye give me that I have not saved?
25Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!)
26Of going—I, in each new picture—forth,
27As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell,
28To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North,
29Bound for the calmly-satisfied great State,
30Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went,
31Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight,
32Through old streets named afresh from the event,
33Till it reached home, where learned age should greet
34My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct
35Above his hair, lie learning at my feet!—
36Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked
37With love about, and praise, till life should end,
38And then not go to heaven, but linger here,
39Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend—
40The thought grew frightful, 'twas so wildly dear!
41But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights
42Have scared me, like the revels through a door
43Of some strange house of idols at its rites!
44This world seemed not the world it was before:
45Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped
46. . . Who summoned those cold faces that begun
47To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped
48Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun,
49They drew me forth, and spite of me . . . enough!
50These buy and sell our pictures, take and give,
51Count them for garniture and household-stuff,
52And where they live needs must our pictures live
53And see their faces, listen to their prate,
54Partakers of their daily pettiness,
55Discussed of—"This I love, or this I hate,
56This likes me more, and this affects me less!"
57Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles
58My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint
59These endless cloisters and eternal aisles
60With the same series, Virgin, Babe and Saint,
61With the same cold calm beautiful regard—
62At least no merchant traffics in my heart;
63The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward
64Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart;
65Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine
66While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke,
67They moulder on the damp wall's travertine,
68'Mid echoes the light footstep never woke.
69So, die my pictures! surely, gently die!
70O youth, men praise so,—holds their praise its worth?
71Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry?
72Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth?
I could have painted pictures like that youth's
Ye praise so. How my soul springs up! No bar
Stayed me—ah, thought which saddens while it soothes!
—Never did fate forbid me, star by star,
To outburst on your night with all my gift
Of fires from God:
nor would my flesh have shrunk
From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift
And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk
To the centre, of an instant; or around
Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan
The license and the limit, space and bound,
Allowed to truth made visible in man.
And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw,
Over the canvas could my hand have flung,
Each face obedient to its passion's law,
Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue;
Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood,
A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace,
Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood
Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place;
Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up,
And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved—
O human faces, hath it spilt, my cup?
What did ye give me that I have not saved?
Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!)
Of going—I, in each new picture—forth,
As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell,
To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North,
Bound for the calmly-satisfied great State,
Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went,
Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight,
Through old streets named afresh from the event,
Till it reached home, where learned age should greet
My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct
Above his hair, lie learning at my feet!—
Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked
With love about, and praise, till life should end,
And then not go to heaven, but linger here,
Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend—
The thought grew frightful, 'twas so wildly dear!
But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights
Have scared me, like the revels through a door
Of some strange house of idols at its rites!
This world seemed not the world it was before:
Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped
. . . Who summoned those cold faces that begun
To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped
Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun,
They drew me forth, and spite of me . . . enough!
These buy and sell our pictures, take and give,
Count them for garniture and household-stuff,
And where they live needs must our pictures live
And see their faces, listen to their prate,
Partakers of their daily pettiness,
Discussed of—"This I love, or this I hate,
This likes me more, and this affects me less!"
Wherefore I chose my portion.
If at whiles
My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint
These endless cloisters and eternal aisles
With the same series, Virgin, Babe and Saint,
With the same cold calm beautiful regard—
At least no merchant traffics in my heart;
The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward
Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart;
Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine
While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke,
They moulder on the damp wall's travertine,
'Mid echoes the light footstep never woke.
So, die my pictures! surely, gently die!
O youth, men praise so,—holds their praise its worth?
Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry?
Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth?
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
That Youth Ye Praise So — Learn about Raphael, the likely model for the poem's highly praised youth.
Browning's Influence — Read writer A. S. Byatt on how Browning influenced her novel Possession.
Portraits of Browning — See images of Browning in his own years as a "Pictor Ignotus" (or at least a lesser-known artist) and his later life as a justly honored old sage.
More Browning Resources — Visit the Victorian Web to find a treasure trove of information on Browning's life and work.
A Brief Biography — Learn about Browning's life at the Poetry Foundation's website.