Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead
Home they brought her warrior 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,
Call'd him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden rom her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
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 tempests came her tears-
'Sweet my child! I live for thee.'
-Lord Tennyson
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