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.
March. Trees are leaving and budding, wildflowers are blooming. By the end of the month, bluebonnets will blanket the Texas fields and roadsides.
And by June, it will all be gone.
Of my threescore years and ten, fifty-eight will not come again. I’m going out to see the loveliest spring there is.