CARLOMAN.
Purity,
In woman the ideal and the dream,
Has its firm seat amid the altitudes
Of manhood’s nature—There alone are seats
Of holy contemplation, sexless thoughts,
Love that in God finds goal, a loneliness
That truth, not sympathy, can cure. ’Tis vain
The hope that woman, made to minister
To momentary passion, can provide
Solace and inspiration to her mate.
She breeds no hope; she cannot offer us
A clime for our ideals and our dreams,
Or plant a footstep soft as memory’s
Across futurity’s unimpressed sands.
PEPIN.
You speak from fact, I own.
But Boniface,
What does he say?
CARLOMAN.
He aids me.
PEPIN.
[slapping him on the shoulder] Carloman,
’Twould be cold work without you.
CARLOMAN.
But my son——