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"Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead"

Home they brought her worrior 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 slept,
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."