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...NOT ONE TO SPARE by ETHEL LYNN BEERS THE DARKLING THRUSH by THOMAS HARDY ELOISA TO ABELARD by ALEXANDER POPE HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 9. MR. NIXON by EZRA POUND TO A FOIL'D EUROPEAN REVOLUTIONAIRE by WALT WHITMAN THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION; A POEM. ENLARGED VERSION: BOOK 2 by MARK AKENSIDE |