Part 3

(_The poet quietly appears from the right. He is dressed in a deep crimson robe, pale brown turban and black sandals; his head is bare. He surveys the others a moment, then touches the shoulder of the Wine Jar Maiden. She turns and stares at him. The others turn also._)

You are all in my heart--a wide space with many buried, black palaces, huge pale-purple windows, hills with rocks for mad shepherds, strolling flower-venders, wine-jar maidens dancing in high courtyards hushed with quilted star-light, and sometimes a slender nun walking alone through the aisles of old reveries. I have woven you into a poem, and you were drawn on by me. But when my poems are made I take my people to a far-off garden in my heart. There we sit beneath one of the shining trees and talk. There I shall give you your soul, your heart, your song--and your huge narcissus flower. And out of them make other poems, perhaps? Who knows? Come.

(_He leads them away._)