The Shrine

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

No god is there of carven stoneTo watch with still approving eyesMy thoughts like steady incense rise; I dream and weep alone.

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