My mind lets go a thousand things 
Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, 
And yet recalls the very hour-- 
'T was noon by yonder village tower, 
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.