SHE knelt upon her brother's grave, <br /> My little girl of six years old-- <br />He used to be so good and brave, <br /> The sweetest lamb of all our fold; <br />He used to shout, he used to sing, <br />Of all our tribe the little king-- <br />And so unto the turf her ear she laid, <br />To hark if still in that dark place he play'd. <br /> No sound! no sound! <br /> Death's silence was profound; <br /> And horror crept <br /> Into her aching heart, and Dora wept. <br /> If this is as it ought to be, <br /> My God, I leave it unto Thee.<br /><br />Thomas Edward Brown<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dora/
