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."
Return to the Alfred Lord Tennyson library , or . . . Read the next poem; A Medley: Now Sleeps The Crimson Petal (The Princess)