So the stately Queen abode For many a week, unknown, among the nuns; Nor with them mixed, nor told her name, nor sought, Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift, But communed only with the little maid, Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness Which often lured her from herself; but now, This night, a rumour wildly blown about Came, that Sir Modred had usurped the realm, And leagued him with the heathen, while the King Was waging war on Lancelot: then she thought, “With what a hate the people and the King Must hate me,” and bowed down upon her hands Silent, until the little maid, who brooked No silence, brake it, uttering, “Late! so late! What hour, I wonder, now?” and when she drew No answer, by and by began to hum An air the nuns had taught her; “Late, so late!” Which when she heard, the Queen looked up, and said, “O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing, Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.” Whereat full willingly sang the little maid. “Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. “No light had we: for that we do repent; And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. “No light: so late! and dark and chill the night! O let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now. “Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? O let us in, though late, to kiss his feet! No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.”