Every one has years three score and ten.
The poet has passed three score and six,
Just four more springs to enjoy whatever.
His cherry comes to bloom once a year
Leaving only four springs of its blossom
And he has to cherry pick a sightseeing.
A third of his time is taken up by sleep,
A cherry cheeked goddess of non-being
Who keeps awake about what to watch.
Poet, do not pick your cherries in bloom
But wait for them to be succulent fruits
Heavy on the bough and ripe for a fall.
(referring to A.E.Houseman’s poem Loveliest of the trees, the cherry now)