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