Dora
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.
DayPoems Poem No. 738
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/738.html">Dora by Thomas Edward Brown</a>
The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor
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