I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
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Promise this world your love-
For better or for worse,
In sickness and in health,
So long as we shall live.
This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter weather passes.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough
And stands about the woodland ride
Dressed in white for Eastertide.
Now, of my three score years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,