790. Dora

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

SHE 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 play'd.
    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.

The Oxford Book of English Verse, HTML edition