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.
Lascelle Abercrombie
Of course; as many as you like--
And of any sort you like.
KATRINA
I
_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?
_Valentine_.
Katrina, of course: who else, when one
Speaks of a she to you?
