_ So far
the story of German justice.
But of the other kind of justice--the poetic, the Divine--the record
is not yet complete.
I know only that there is a fatherless girl working and praying in
a hospital in England, and a fatherless boy fighting and praying
in the muddy trenches near Ypres, and a lonely woman walking and
praying under certain great beech-trees at the Chateau d'Azan. The
burden of their prayer is the same. Night and day it rises to Him
who will judge the world in righteousness and before whose eyes
the wicked shall not stand.
September, 1918.
THE KING'S HIGH WAY
In the last remnant of Belgium, a corner yet unconquered by
the German horde, I saw a tall young man walking among the dunes,
between the sodden lowland and the tumbling sea.
The hills where he trod were of sand heaped high by the western winds;
and the growth over them was wire-grass and thistles, bayberry and
golden broom and stunted pine, with many humble wild flowers--things
of no use, yet beautiful.
The sky above was gray; the northern sea was gray; the southern
fields were hazy gray over green; the smoke of shells bursting
in the air was gray.
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