THE FLOWERS laugh happily.
THE COW HORN. I stalk the eternal hills—I drink the mountain snows. My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. The lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and blood hot, strength huge—the cloak of gravity.
SEELCHEN. Yes. yes! I want him. He is strong!
The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR cry out together:
"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.