The Shrine 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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/24/2024 10:35:29 PM # 1.0.0.1119
