Now Of My Threescore Years And Ten, Twenty Will Not Come Again, And Take From Seventy Springs A Score, It Leaves Me Only Fifty More.

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Now of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It leaves me only 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. Housman

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