HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD

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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