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