“Clinkel-clink!  Clinkel-clink!”

     “Mountain air!  Mountain air!”

The cow horn.  Little soul!  Hold to me!  Love me!  Live with me under the stars!

Seelchen. [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.

          Theflowers, 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!

          Theflowers 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!”