Lover,lead forth thy love unto that bed prepared by whitest hands of waiting years, curtained with wordless worship absolute, unto the certain altar at whose head stands that clear candle whose expecting breath exults upon the tongue of flame half-mute, (haste ere some thrush with silver several tears complete the perfumed paraphrase of death). Now is the time when all occasional things close into silence,only one tree,one svelte translation of eternity unto the pale meaning of heaven clings, (whose million leaves in winsome indolence simmer upon thinking twilight momently) as down the oblivious west's numerous dun magnificence conquers magnificence. e.e. cummings