Explore "At Verona" by Oscar Wilde on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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, / 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 / 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.