I can’t give you snow-white cherry blossoms this morning, but I can offer this picture of pinkish blossoms in full bloom outside my house this fine, clear April morning.
Which brings me to AE Housman again, who despite sounding a typically mournful note in this poem from A Shropshire Lad, still (perhaps) manages to keep it upbeat enough for Spring. It’s not Eastertime today either, but I can only assume it was an Easter later in April which Housman imagined…
Still, whatever the more maudlin traits if this poem, one of its strands remain clear: enjoy
the blossoms while you can.
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.