Egla’s Bower Poem by Maria Gowen Brooks

ACACIAS here inclined
Their friendly heads in thick profusion, planted,
And with a thousand tendrils clasp'd and twined;
And when at fervid noon all nature panted,

Enwoven with their boughs, a fragrant bower
Inviting rest its mossy pillow flung;
And here the full cerulean passion-flower,
Climbing among the leaves, its mystic symbols hung.

And, though the sun had gained his utmost height,
Just as he oped its vivid folds at dawn,
Look'd still, that tenderest, frailest child of light,
By shepherds named 'the glory of the morn.'

Sweet flower, thou'rt lovelier even than the rose:
The rose is pleasure, — felt and known as such —
Soon past, but real, — tasted, while it glows;
But thou, too bright and pure for mortal touch,

Art like those brilliant things we never taste
Or see, unless with Fancy's lip and eye,
When maddened by her mystic spells, we waste
Life on a thought, and rob reality.

Here, too, the lily raised its snow-white head;
And myrtle leaves, like friendship, when sincere,
Most sweet when wounded, all around were spread;
And though from noon's fierce heat the wild deer fled,
A soft warm twilight reign'd impervious here.

Tranquil and lone in such a light to be,
How sweet to sense and soul! the form recline
Forgets it e'er felt pain; and Reverie,
Sweet mother of the muses, heart and soul are thine!