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.”





Lord Alfred Tennyson

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