II
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oveliest of trees, the cherry nowIs hung with bloom along the bough,And stands about the woodland rideWearing 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 bloomFifty springs are little room,About the woodlands I will goTo see the cherry hung with snow.
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