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.