A Song Of The Princess

Poem By Sara Teasdale

The princess has her lovers,
A score of knights has she,
And each can sing a madrigal,
And praise her gracefully.

But Love that is so bitter
Hath put within her heart
A longing for the scornful knight
Who silent stands apart.

And tho' the others praise and plead,
She maketh no reply,
Yet for a single word from him,
I ween that she would die.

Comments about A Song Of The Princess

A beautiful poem in just three stanzas. The gist of the poem has been aptly brought out by two fellow readers which I appreciate and like to quote here again: By Cleo Barawid: - 'we love the unattainable, something or someone way beyond our reach. it happens to most of us'. By Adrian Flett: - 'The seemingly unattainable is often the most sought'.
Adding the 10 and myriad more for the vote and rating. I wanna repeat: What a loveliest and cutest poem. But too saddest, the poetess died a young age 49. May she rest in peace. Amen.
True love, no adorations only. An excellent Modern Poem Of The Day as chosen by our Poem Hunter Poem Site, THE Greatest Poem Site! Congratulations! Also my sincerest congratulations to the poetess family in the USA and abroad, so nice and feeling wealthy to have an artistic family member in the art of words. Dear Family, GBU All.
The poem looks for true love, not adulation. Thanks for posting this poem Chandan
Loved the poem. Thanks PH.

3,2 out of 5
58 total ratings

Other poems of TEASDALE

Advice To A Girl

No one worth possessing
Can be quite possessed;
Lay that on your heart,
My young angry dear;

A Winter Night

My window-pane is starred with frost,
The world is bitter cold to-night,
The moon is cruel, and the wind
Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

After Parting

Oh I have sown my love so wide
That he will find it everywhere;
It will awake him in the night,
It will enfold him in the air.

After Love

There is no magic any more,
We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
Nor I for you.


I am alone, in spite of love,
In spite of all I take and give—
In spite of all your tenderness,
Sometimes I am not glad to live.

After Death

Now while my lips are living
Their words must stay unsaid,
And will my soul remember
To speak when I am dead?