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.
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