Loveliest of trees, the cherry now    
Is hung with bloom along the bough,    
And stands about the woodland ride    
Wearing white for Eastertide.
[A. E. Houseman]

Another walk in the park was breathtaking on this first really warm day. I took these photos with my iPad2—a new adventure indeed. Here is another site in the park (at five foot-seven inches, I would have to stoop to enter the door):

Replica of Abraham Lincoln's boyhood home.

The rest of the story… I first read this poem when I was twenty, and fifty more springs sounded like a lot. Every year since, I welcomed spring, relished its beauty and remembered this poem by A. E. Houseman. Now that I am close to seventy, I wish I could tell Mr. Houseman that threescore years and ten of appreciating springs absorbs them into a person’s soul so they can be vividly recalled even in the dead of winter. Spring, like love, becomes eternal.

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.

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