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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