FELSMAN. Love me!
SEELCHEN. Thou art rude!
FELSMAN. Love me!
SEELCHEN. Thou art grim!
FELSMAN. Aye. I have no silver tongue. Listen! This is my voice.
[Sweeping his arm round all the still alp] It is quiet. From dawn
to the first star all is fast. [Laying his hand on her heart] And
the wings of the birds shall be still.
SEELCHEN. [Touching his eyes] Thine eyes are fierce. In them I see
the wild beasts crouching. In them I see the distance. Are they
always fierce?
FELSMAN. Never--to look on thee, my flower.
SEELCHEN. [Touching his hands] Thy hands are rough to pluck
flowers. [She breaks away from him to the rock where THE GOATHERD is
lying] See! Nothing moves! The very day stands still. Boy! [But
THE GOATHERD neither stirs nor answers] He is lost in the blue.
[Passionately] Boy! He will not answer me. No one will answer me
here.
FELSMAN. [With fierce longing] Am I then no one?
SEELCHEN. Thou?
[The scene darkens with evening]
See! Sleep has stolen the day! It is night already.
There come the female shadow forms of SLEEP, in grey cobweb
garments, waving their arms drowsily, wheeling round her.
SEELCHEN. Are you Sleep? Dear Sleep!
Smiling, she holds out her arms to FELSMAN. He takes her
swaying form. They vanish, encircled by the forms of SLEEP. It
is dark, save for the light of the thin horned moon suddenly
grown bright.
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