FELSMAN. The sun.
SEELCHEN. To burn me.
FELSMAN. The air.
There is a faint wailing of wind.
SEELCHEN. To freeze me.
FELSMAN. The silence.
The noise of the wind dies away.
SEELCHEN. Yes, it is lonely.
FELSMAN. Wait! And the flowers shall dance to thee.
And to a ringing of their bells. THE FLOWERS come dancing; till, one by one, they cease, and sink down, nodding, falling asleep.