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.”

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Y. J. Hall
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