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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=365972" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Portrait of Rachel Fayne</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">She glided into the studio<br>And dropped her clothes on the floor, <br>Gave the artist a pirouette, <br>And said: 'Do you want any more? '<br>He shrugged, and told her to take a seat<br>While he etched the background in, <br>'I'll paint you draped on the canapé, <br>I'll tell you, when I begin! '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She wandered naked around the room, <br>At home in the artist's den, <br>Rachel Fayne was the model's name, <br>She'd modelled since she was ten.<br>From auburn hair to her shapely calves<br>She'd stared from a hundred scenes, <br>That hung in frames under different names<br>As a slave, or a Gypsy Queen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her lips were full and her eyes were green, <br>They'd startled men in the past, <br>Staring from frames in the galleries, <br>In the windows of shops they passed, <br>So haughty and so beautiful, <br>And beyond the reach of men, <br>Yet here she'd bare, for all to share<br>Through the brush in the artist's den! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She hadn't sat for John Durrell<br>Before, but she knew his work, <br>The famous 'Woman of Paddington', <br>The 'Girl by the Friendly Kirk, '<br>His 'Venus under the Waterfall' -<br>Her heart had skipped a bit, <br>As she stared green-eyed in her wounded pride, <br>Would he never ask her to sit? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The summons came through a friend of hers, <br>'Be there, first thing in the morn! '<br>She'd bathed, and powdered her body well<br>By the light of the breaking dawn, <br>For John Durrell was a master, skilled<br>And she knew it would seal her fame, <br>To be tied to an R.A. masterpiece, <br>And the famous Durrell name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Don't ask too many questions, he's<br>Intense, and immersed in paint, <br>He's hard and cold, and inclined to scold<br>If you don't sit still, or faint, <br>He'll look at you like a curlicue, <br>An enigma of line and form, <br>His passion is brushed in his pictures, <br>So, it won't keep your body warm! '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He laid her out on the canapé<br>And took up his sable brush, <br>Mixed the tint on his palette there, <br>For the flesh tones, and the blush, <br>He worked with a growing intensity<br>And he frowned, as if in pain, <br>As he brought the features to life within<br>The portrait of Rachel Fayne.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She wasn't to see the canvas, he<br>Would cover it, out of sight, <br>Before she dressed, and took her fee, <br>Was bundled into the night, <br>Each day she lay on the canapé, <br>Each day he'd frown and paint, <br>'There's something isn't quite right, ' he'd say, <br>In a tone of quiet constraint.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">While Rachel felt there was something wrong<br>With her, a cold or flu, <br>Perhaps it was her complexion, <br>It had taken a lighter hue, <br>She felt quite sick to her stomach, <br>Couldn't eat, and her sight was dim, <br>But he'd continued on painting, so<br>She held her sickness in.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">While there on the painted canvas was<br>A beauty, so profound, <br>Her eyes of the deepest green, that seemed<br>To follow him around, <br>The lips were a pouting marvel, <br>Breathing life to the easel there, <br>Durrell becoming excited with<br>Each brush stroke through her hair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His heart was beating much faster with<br>Each stroke applied anew, <br>The love that cozened, eluded him<br>Began to seep on through, <br>While Rachel gasped to take each breath<br>And couldn't speak, or think, <br>As the woman within the picture, well...<br>Her eyes, they seemed to blink! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The canvas facing the furthest wall<br>Belongs to John Durrell, <br>The first and the only portrait that<br>He swears he'll never sell, <br>For where the woman had been, is white, <br>No paint was left behind, <br>And Rachel Fayne, before she died, <br>They say that she was blind! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">22 January 2010</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=David+Lewis+Paget">David Lewis Paget</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=365972" data-title="The Portrait of Rachel Fayne de David Lewis Paget" data-description="She glided into the studio
And dropped her clothes on the floor, 
Gave the artist a pirouette, 
And said: 'Do you want any more? '
He shrugged, and told her to take a seat
While he etched the background in, 
'I'll paint you draped on the canapé, ..."></div>
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