  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 stept, 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.” —Alfred, Lord Tennyson. The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday’s sneer and yesterday’s frown Can never come over again. |
|
