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,



Twenty will not come again,



And take from seventy springs a score,



It only leaves me fifty more.







And since to look at things in bloom



Fifty springs are little room,



About the woodlands I will go



To see the cherry hung with snow.





