Wallace Stevens.

If “a poet looks at the world
the way a man looks at a woman,”
then World, I am taking you home
and undressing you slowly.
Unzipping your equator,
unbuttoning your lines of latitude,
and leaving your clothes on the floor of the cosmos.
Because I can’t get enough of you.
And I hope to fall asleep with you each night
and rise with you each day
until death do us rejoin,
and the ashes from the blaze which was our love
return me to dust upon the wind,
or roses in a field.