Kwan-yin shall come, shall come, Surely she shall come, To bring content and a new diamond day to the desolate, To bring the touch of hands & the song of birds To those who walk terribly alone. To part the russet earth and the fingers of the leaves in the spring That they may give up their treasure. To those who faint for lack of such treasure To listen to the long complaining of the old and the unwanted. To bring lover to lover across the world, Thrusting the stars aside and cleaving the seas and the mountains. To hold up the high paths beneath the feet of travellers. To keep the persuading roar of waters from the ears of the broken-hearted. To bring a smile to the narrow lips of death, To make beautiful the eyes of death. A woman's voice again sings, unheeded, from behind the veil of smoke. Wherefore plead with death? Who shall soften the terrible heart of death? All, in urgent but slow unison: Kwan-yin. Kwan-yin. Kwan-yin. Kwan-yin. The golden face of Kwan-yin above the altar changes suddenly and terribly, and becomes like a masque of fear. The lanterns flare spasmodically. The voice can now be identified as Kwan-yin's, but still the priests stand unhearing with their heads bowed, and still the passionless bell rings. Kwan-yin, in a screaming voice: Ah, be still, be still.... I am Kwan-yin. I am Mercy. Mercy is defeated. Mercy who battled not, is defeated. She is a captive bound to the chariot of pain. Sorrow has set his foot upon her neck. Sin has mocked her. Turn away thine eyes from Mercy, From poor Mercy. Woo her no more. Cry upon her no more. There is an abrupt moment of silence as the light becomes dim again & Kwan-yin's face is frozen still. Then the first priest sings. What then are Mercy's gifts? The rose-red slopes Of hills ... the secret twisted hands of trees? Shall not the moon & the stars redeem lost hopes? What fairer gifts shall Mercy bring than these? For, in the end, when our beseeching clamor Dies with our bells; when fear devours our words; Lo, she shall come & hold the night with glamor, Lo, she shall come & sow the dawn with birds. Ah thou irrelevant saviour, ah thou bringer Of treasure from the empty sky, ah thou Who answerest death with song, shall such a singer Be silent now? Shall thou be silent now? The 105th beat of the bell is now reached and there is a pause in the ringing. All: KWAN-YIN. The bell is rung slowly three times. Then there is absolute silence. There is now a tenseness in the attitudes of all the worshippers, they lean forward and look with suspense into Kwan-yin's quite impassive golden face. The lights go out suddenly. * * * * * One hundred copies printed by Edwin Grabhorn, San Francisco, in April, 1922. Bound by Florence Grabhorn.