The goatherd is seen again sitting upright on his rock and piping.  And there come four little brown, wild-eyed, naked Boys, with Goat’s legs and feet, who dance gravely in and out of The Sleeping Flowers; and the flowers wake, spring up, and fly.  Till each Goat, catching his flower has vanished, and the goatherd has ceased to pipe, and lies motionless again on his rock.

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.  Then on his rock, to a faint gaping the goatherd sings: 

         “My goat, my little speckled one. 
          My yellow-eyed, sweet-smelling. 
          Let moon and wind and golden sun
          And stars beyond all telling
          Make, every day, a sweeter grass. 
          And multiply thy leaping! 
          And may the mountain foxes pass
          And never scent thee sleeping! 
          Oh!  Let my pipe be clear and far. 
          And let me find sweet water! 
          No hawk nor udder-seeking jar
          Come near thee, little daughter! 
          May fiery rocks defend, at noon,
          Thy tender feet from slipping! 
          Oh! hear my prayer beneath the moon—­
          Great Master, Goat-God—­skipping!”