Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead
Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
-She must weep or she will die.-
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stepped,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee-
Like summer tempest came her tears-
-Sweet my child, I live for thee.-
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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