She nor swooned, nor uttered a cry:
All her maidens, watching said,
'She must weep or she will die'.
Then they praised him, soft and low.
Called 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 steeped,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set her child upon her knees –
Like summer tempest came her tears –
'Sweet my child, I live for thee'.
- Alfred Lord Tennyson
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