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 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.
A.E. HOUMAN, from A SHROPSHIRE LAD
Now, for the tea to sip while reading this lovely piece of language, I might suggest Silver Rain White Tea or Sky Between the Branches White tea. They sound like poems, don't they?
