In My Golden Bower

I wasn’t in the living room last night
When somebody broke in, and spent an hour
Among my bookshelves, in my golden bower.
When I came down at dawn, I had a fright:
Five books were on the sofa, an odd sight
Comprising four books in a messy tower
And one, a study of Dwight Eisenhower,
Hidden beneath a cushion, packed in tight.

I put them all away, but not before
The pencilled notes my bold intruder left
Aroused my interest. No, it wasn’t theft,
But something much worse, because I adore
The clean, white margins that my texts once wore,
So in my golden bower I am bereft.