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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY A VIEW, OF SADDLEBACK IN CUMBERLAND by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE BOHEMIAN HYMN by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE WAVING OF THE CORN by SIDNEY LANIER LOVE AND TIME by WALTER RALEIGH WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY THE NIGHT SONG by MARY DELL ALLEN |