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
Go ye, and whisper, passionate.
These words that burn
'O listening one!
Love that flieth past is gone
Nor ever may return!'"