Poem by Sara Teasdale

The Shrine

THERE is no lord within my heart,
	Left silent as an empty shrine
	Where rose and myrtle intertwine,
Within a place apart.

No god is there of carven stone
	To watch with still approving eyes
	My thoughts like steady incense rise;
I dream and weep alone.

But if I keep my altar fair,
	Some morning I shall lift my head
	From roses deftly garlanded
To find the god is there. 

1. In a Cuban Garden
2. Understanding
3. Bells
4. The Nights Remember
5. Let It Be Forgotten

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