Читать книгу The Song Maker - A Collection of Poems - Sara Teasdale - Страница 22

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.