DORA

by: T. E. Brown (1830-1897)

HE knelt upon her brother's grave,

My little girl of six years old--

He used to be so good and brave,

The sweetest lamb of all our fold;

He used to shout, he used to sing,

Of all our tribe the little king--

And so unto the turf her ear she laid,

To hark if still in that dark place he played.

No sound! no sound!

Death's silence was profound;

And horror crept

Into her aching heart, and Dora wept.

If this is as it ought to be,

My God, I leave it unto Thee.

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