The stairs are steep but Jacob is ready to start climbing
HOW steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are | |
For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread, | |
And O how salt and bitter is the bread | |
Which falls from this Hound’s table,—better far | |
That I had died in the red ways of war, | 5 |
Or that the gate of Florence bare my head, | |
Than to live thus, by all things comraded | |
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar. | |
“Curse God and die: what better hope than this? | |
He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss | 10 |
Of his gold city, and eternal day”— | |
Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars | |
I do possess what none can take away, | |
My love, and all the glory of the stars. | |
Oscar Wilde, 1881, At Verona
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