Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
Home they brought her Warrior DeadAlfred, Lord Tennyson (18091892)
H
She nor swoon’d, nor utter’d cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die.’
Call’d him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Lightly to the warrior stept,
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.’