The Shrine - By Sara Teasdale

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.