The Bower

In the glade of a woodland fair, Where the light winds whisper low, There lies a bower, a refuge rare, That Nature and peace bestow.

With flowers that climb in the gentle sun, And vines that twine on high, A sanctuary where hearts are won, And time still drifts and sighs.

A seat of moss where silence reigns, Where laughter of leaf is heard; It is here amid the quiet lanes, By the songs of the sweet birds stirred.

Let us whisper our dreams in this sacred place, In the bower, our moments dwell; With hearts entwined in love and grace, We forge our hopes and bid farewell.

—Felicia Hemans

• Felicia Hemans