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.
POEMS BY T.E. BROWN
'Dora' is reprinted from An Anthology
of Modern Verse. Ed. A. Methuen. London: Methuen & Co.,