was
seated in the chair he was placed in my lap, and a man was sent
ahead with cash to give the beggars, because I wished all the world to
be happy on this my day of rejoicing.

My bearers carried me to the very steps of the throne on which
Kwan-yin was seated. I made my obeisance, I lighted the large red
candles and placed them before the Goddess of Heaven. Then I took
our son before the Buddha, the Name, the Lord of Light, the
All-Powerful, and touched his head three times to the mat, to show
that he would be a faithful follower and learn to keep the law.

We went home by the valley road, and my heart kept beating in tune
to the pat-pat of the bearers' feet on the pathway. It was all so
beautiful. The trailing vines on the mountain-side, the ferns in the cool
dark places, the rich green leaves of the mulberry-trees, the farmers in
the paddy fields, all seemed filled with the joy of life. And I, Kwei-li,
going along in my chair with my son on my knee, was the happiest of
them all. The Gods have given me everything; they have nothing more
to bestow. I am glad I have gone to the mountain-side each day to
thank them for their gifts.

The Gods are good, my loved one, they are good to thy,
Kwei-li.

33
I am alone on the mountain-top. I have gone the pathway the last time
to lay my offering at the feet of Kwan-yin. She does not hear my
voice. There is no Goddess of Mercy. She is a thing of gold and wood,
and she has mocked my despair, has laughed at the heart that is
within me, that is alive and full of an anguish such as she has never
known.

My son, my man-child is dead. The life has gone from his body, the
breath from his lips. I have held him all the night close to my heart
and it does not give him warmth. They have taken him from me and
told me he has gone to the Gods. There are no Gods. There are no
Gods. I am alone.

34
He had thine eyes-- he was like to thee. Thou wilt never know thy son
and mine, my Springtime. Why could they not have left thy son for
thee to see? He was so strong and beautiful, my first-born.

35
Do not chide me. I cannot write. What do I do? I do not know. I lie
long hours and watch the tiny mites that live within the sun's bright
golden rays, and say, "Why could I not exchange my womanhood,
that hopes and loves and sorrows, for one of those small dancing
spots within the sunbeams? At least they do not feel."

At night sleep does not touch my eyelids. I lie upon the terrace. I