“Who, and for what?” She knows not, but a steam,
A blood offering, scents she in the air.
In a trance she moves; round her a void space.
Awed as if at Death’s halo on Youth’s grace,
Warriors shrink as on the Princess comes,
Abashed to look their victim in the face.
A priest’s touch—the tresses in which maids bind
Their waving hair have found themselves confined
By a sacrificial fillet, the ends
Circling each cheek, and flowing down behind.