I've not heard of a man having a bower. That word usually evokes an image of semi-dark, perfumed, mysterious spaces done in red and purple, with artfully draped fabric. (My imagination is strrrange.)

But omg Wordsworth yay! We had to write brutal essays on the romantics (well, as brutal as you can get with 15-year-olds) a few years back, but I always liked Coleridge a bit more. Something about the fact that, if at a complete loss for an argument, I could blame it on him being a stoner.