SWIFT across the palace floor
Flashed her tiny wilful feet;
“Playfellow, I will no more,
Now I must my task complete.”

Arthur kissed her childish hand,
Sighed to think her task severe,
Walked forth in the garden land,
Lonely till she reappear.

She has sought her latticed room,
Overlooking faery seas,
Called Launcelot from a bowery gloom
To feast of milk and honey of bees.

“Had we bid Prince Arthur too,
He had shaken his grave head,
Saying, ‘My holidays are few!’—
May queens not have their will?” she said

Thus she passed the merry day,
Thus her women spake and smiled:
“All we see we need not say,
For Guinever is but a child.”