... acolyte to tender it: Whereto the maid did stoop and fit Her hand about its silken cup To close it, that her mouth might sup The honey-drop within. The bloom Saw Kore then, and knew her doom Foretold in it; and stood in trance Fixed and still. No nigromance Used she, but read the fate it bore In seedless womb and petals frore. Chill blew the wind, waiting stood She, Waiting her ... — Helen Redeemed and Other Poems • Maurice Hewlett