Home they brought her warrior dead:
   She nor swooned, nor uttered 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 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.’