e. e. cummings

stand with your lover on the ending earth-

and while a(huge which by which huger than
huge)whoing sea leaps to greenly hurl snow  

suppose we could not love,dear;imagine

ourselves like living neither nor dead these
(or many thousand hearts which don't and dream
or many million minds which sleep and move)
blind sands,at pitiless the mercy of

time time time time time

-how fortunate are you and i,whose home
is timelessness:we who have wandered down
from fragrant mountains of eternal now  

to frolic in such mysteries as birth 
and death a day(or maybe even less)