Velázquez took a pliant knife 
And scraped his palette clean; 
He said, “I lead a dog's own life 
Painting a king and queen.” 

He cleaned his palette with oily rags 
And oakum from Seville wharves; 
“I am sick of painting painted hags 
And bad ambiguous dwarves. 

“The sky is silver, the clouds are pearl, 
Their locks are looped with rain. 
I will not paint Maria's girl 
For all the money in Spain.” 

He washed his face in water cold, 
His hands in turpentine; 
He squeezed out colour like coins of gold 
And colour like drops of wine. 

Each colour lay like a little pool 
On the polished cedar wood; 
Clear and pale and ivory-cool 
Or dark as solitude. 

He burnt the rags in the fireplace 
And leaned from the window high; 
He said, “I like that gentleman's face 
Who wears his cap awry.” 

This is the gentleman, there he stands, 
Castilian, sombre-caped, 
With arrogant eyes, and narrow hands 
Miraculously shaped.