HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD
Reading edition
By Alfred Tennyson
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 never spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took a 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.”
