The Shrine

by Sara Teasdale

　　

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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.

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