Lyrics

Loveliest of trees, the cherry, now
Is hung with blooms along the bough.
And stands about the woodland ride,
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my three score 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.