POEM HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD *

Home they brought her warrior dead
She nor swooned, nor uttered a 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 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 tempest came her tears -
‘Sweet my child, I live for thee’.

-Alfred Lord Tennyson