lls with Silence; and dance in the cities with
Knowledge. Both shall possess thee! The sun and the moon on the
mountains shall burn thee; the lamps of the town singe thy wings.
small Moth! Each shall seem all the world to thee, each shall seem
as thy grave! Thy heart is a feather blown from one mouth to the
other. But be not afraid! For the life of a man is for all loves in
turn. 'Tis a little raft moored, then sailing out into the blue; a
tune caught in a hush, then whispering on; a new-born babe, half
courage and half sleep. There is a hidden rhythm. Change.
Quietude. Chance. Certainty. The One. The Many. Burn on--thou
pretty flame, trying to eat the world! Thou shaft come to me at
last, my little soul!

THE VOICES and THE FLOWER-BELLS peal out.

SEELCHEN, enraptured, stretches her arms to embrace the sight
and sound, but all fades slowly into dark sleep.

SCENE III

The dark scene again becomes glamorous. SEELCHEN is seen with her
hand stretched out towards the Piazza of a little town, with a plane
tree on one side, a wall on the other, and from the open doorway of
an Inn a pale path of light. Over the Inn hangs a full golden moon.
Against the wall, under the glimmer of a lamp, leans a youth with the
face of THE WINE HORN, in a crimson dock, thrumming a mandolin, and
singing:

"Little star soul
Through the frost fields of night
Roaming alone, disconsolate--
From out the cold
I call thee in
Striking my dark mandolin
Beneath this moon of gold."

From the Inn comes a burst of laughter, and the sound of
dancing.

SEELCHEN: [Whispering] It is the big world!

The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings On:

"Pretty grey moth,
Where the strange candles shine,
Seeking for warmth, so desperate--
Ah! fluttering dove
I bid thee win
Striking my dark mandolin
The crimson flame of love."

SEELCHEN. [Gazing enraptured at the Inn] They are dancing!

As SHE speaks, from either side come moth-children, meeting and
fluttering up the path of light to the Inn doorway; then
wheeling aside, they form again, and again flutter forward.

SEELCHEN. [Holding out her hands] They are real! Their wings are
windy.

The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings on;

"Lips of my song,
To the white maiden's heart