Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride,
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Fifty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me twenty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Twenty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
A.E. Housman (almost)
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