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.
Dora
Thomas Edward Brown
(2)
Poem topics: brave, brother, dark, death, girl, god, heart, silence, good, king, place, play, grave, horror, sound, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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