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Real life does not rhyme or scan...
or make sense.  But it can be made to parse:

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,
Seventy-six will not come again,
And take from seventy springs threescore and sixteen,
It only leaves me six less.

And since to look at things in bloom
Minus six springs are less than no room,
About Fellsmere Park I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.