O sweet spontaneous

by E. E. Cummings



O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the doting


fingers of
prurient philosophies pinched
and poked


thee
has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy


beauty how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy
knees squeezing and


buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
but
true


to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover


thou answerest


them only with


spring