Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead
by Lord Alfred Tennyson
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die.’
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Lightly to the warrior stepped,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Set his child upon her knee—
Like summer tempest came her tears—
‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’