It is the men
That have the tragedy in these weather'd lands.
_Francis_.
No thought of that! We are monks now. And, indeed,
This is a cloister that a man could like,
This blue-aired space of grassy land, that here,
Just as it touches the sea's bitter mood,
Is troubled into dunes, as it were thrilled,
Like a calm woman trembling against love.
_Sylvan_.
Woman again!--How, knowing you, I failed
So long to know the truth, I cannot think.
_Francis_.
And what's the truth?
_Sylvan_.
Woman and love of her
Is as a dragging ivy on the growth
Of that strong tree, man's nature!
_Valentine_.
Yes. But now
Tell us a simpler sort of truth. Was she---
_Sylvan_.
She? Who?
_Valentine_.
Katrina, of course: who else, when one
Speaks of a she to you?
_Sylvan_.
And what about her?
_Valentine_.
Was she too cruel to you, or too kind?
_Sylvan_.
Ah, there's no hope for men like you; you're sunk
Above your consciences in smothering ponds
Of sweet imagination,--drowned in woman!
_Francis_.
Ay? Clarence and the Malmesey over again;
'Twas a delightful death.
_Valentine_.
But you forget.
Sylvan, we've come as your disciples here.
_Sylvan_.
Yes, to a land where not the least desire
Need prey upon your mettle.
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