The poem
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.