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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."
Tennyson
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