I see a candle that is like an arm stiffened in prayer. (She pauses) Palest purple window, is my soul standing behind you and spreading to light that gently thrusts me down? A flamed-loosed angel lifted it from me. I ran after him. He seemed to touch you, window, like a vapor kiss dying upon pale purple silk. (a pause) Must I stand here always waiting for my soul like a flower petal pressed deep into the earth by passing feet? The Shepherd: You have lost a soul and I a tune. Let me make you the tune and you make me your soul. You could sit with me on my rock in the hills and make a soul of my reed—rippling and piping of you, I might weave a new tune. The Nun: Can you give me a soul that will be Christ floating out in clear music? Only then I would go with you. Shepherd (sadly): My music is like the wet, quick kiss of rain. It knows nothing of Christ. (A short silence) (The Wine jar maiden appears from the right. She is tall and pale brown; upon her head is a long pale green jar; her hair is black and spurts down. Her face is wide but delicately twisted. She wears a thin simple pale green gown, with a black girdle about her waist, one tasseled end hanging down. She stops a little behind the Slender Nun, and lowers her wine jar to the floor. The Nun turns and partly faces her. The Narcissus Peddler looks up from where he has sat, in a reverie, beside his basket.) The Wine Jar Maiden: My heart was a wine jar stained with the roses of frail dreams and filled with wine that had turned to shaking mist. One day I felt it wrenched from me, and mist drops that flew from it, as it left, sank into my breast and made me shrink. I could not see the thief, but I followed the scent of my heart trailing behind him. It brought me here, but at this palest purple window it died. Scent of my heart, have you spread over this huge window, and must I stand forever looking upon you? (The Narcissus Peddler slowly rises and takes a stride toward the palest purple window) The Narcissus Peddler: That dim shape behind the window—I believe it is a huge narcissus. I am a rainbow-smeared knave to stand here juggling the little golden balls of dreams. I shall spring through the window. The Slender Nun: Take my hand when you spring. Perhaps this is God’s forehead, and we shall melt into it, like billows of rain washing into a cliff. The Wine Jar Maiden: If I leap through this window, a cloak of my heart-scent may hang to me. I shall touch the cloak, now and then, and that shall be my life. The Mad Shepherd: I must sit here, and whirl with my young spirit. If I cannot knit together strands of music better than the tune I ran after, then I should not have chased it.