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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.
~ A. E. Housman
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