At Verona Poem by Oscar Wilde

At Verona

Rating: 3.0



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.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Me Meness 24 February 2022

I love this poem SO much even despite not really liking the poet that much!

0 0 Reply
* Sunprincess * 17 October 2015

.....a wonderful poem...love these lines especially ? I do possess what none can take away, my love, and all the glory of the stars

2 0 Reply
SS BAGHELA 30 September 2005

Wilde had his poetic fervour matured while being behind the bars.

3 1 Reply
SS BAGHELA 30 September 2005

Wilde is a historian besides being a poet.

4 1 Reply
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Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde

Dublin / Ireland
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