EELCHEN. [Below her breath] I am afraid.

And suddenly the Peak of THE WINE HORN speaks in a youth's
voice.

THE WINE HORN. I am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' the
streets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and the
chestnuts' shade. From day to day all changes, where I burn my
incense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces I dwell, and
passionate dark alleys. The life of men in crowds is mine--of
lamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves.
and never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing in
the sunshine.

THE FLOWERS, ringing in alarm, cry:

"We know them!"

THE WINE HORN. I hear the rustlings of the birth and death of
pleasure; and the rattling of swift wheels. I hear the hungry oaths
of men; and love kisses in the airless night. Without me, little
soul, you starve and die,

SEELCHEN. He is speaking for the gentle Sir, and the big world of
the Town. It pulls my heart.

THE WINE HORN. My thoughts surpass in number the flowers in your
meadows; they fly more swiftly than your eagles on the wind. I drink
the wine of aspiration, and the drug of disillusion. Thus am I never
dull!

The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN
BOOKS are heard calling out together:

"I am Italy, Italy!"

"See me--steam in the distance!"

"O remember, remember!"

THE WINE HORN. Love me, little soul! I paint life fifty colours.
I make a thousand pretty things! I twine about your heart!

SEELCHEN. He is honey!

THE FLOWERS ring their bells jealously and cry:

"Bitter! Bitter!"

THE COW HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! I wake thee with the crystal
air.

The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR tiny out far away:

"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!"

"Mountain air! Mountain air!"

And THE FLOWERS laugh happily.

THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! My fan, Variety, shall wake
you!

The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM and THINGS IN
BOOKS chant softly:

"I am Italy! Italy!"

"See me--steam in the distance!"

"O remember, remember!"

And THE FLOWERS moan.

SEELCHEN. [In grief] My heart! It is torn!

THE WINE HORN. With me, little soul, you shall race in the streets.
and peep at all secrets. We will hold hands, and fly like the
thistle-