On the sea-coast. Three young men, SYLVAN, VALENTINE, and FRANCIS.
Valentine.
Well, I suppose you're out of your fear at last,
Sylvan. This land's empty enough; naught here
Feminine but the hens, bitches, and cows.
Now we are safe!
Francis.
Horribly safe; for here,
If there are wives at all, they are salted so
They have no meaning for the blood, bent things
Philosophy allows not to be women.
Valentine.
But think of the husbands that must spend their nights
Alongside skin like bark. 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?