Memory

My mind lets go a thousand things,

Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,

And yet recalls that very hour—

One noon by yonder village towers,

And on the last blue noon in May—

The wind came briskly up this way,

Crisping the brook beside the road;

Then, pausing here, set down its load

Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly

Two petals from that wild-rose tree.

— Thomas Bailey Aldrich