My mind lets go a thousand things,
Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
And yet recalls the very hour–
‘Twas 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.
Memory by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Angels in the early morning
May be seen the dews among,
Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying:
Do the buds to them belong?
Angels when the sun is hottest
May be seen the sands among,
Stooping, plucking, sighing, flying;
Parched the flowers they bear along.
Angels in the Early Morning by Emily Dickinson
How weary ’twas to wait! The year
Went dragging slowly on;
The red leaf to the running brook
Dropped sadly, and was gone;
December came, and locked in ice
The plashing of the mill;
The white snow filled the orchard up;
But she was waiting still.
from Verses to Order by Henry Austin Dobson
Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone,
I lingered on the river’s marge alone,
Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray,
And watched the last bright sunshine steal away.
from The Greenwich Pensioners by William Lisle Bowles