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Wednesday, 12 October 2016

Home they Brought her Warrior Dead

Home they brought her warrior dead:
         She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
         "She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low,
         Call'd 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."

 By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

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