Dora

 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.

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