O Sweet Spontaneous - e e cummings

 O sweet spontaneous

earth how often have 

the doting

fingers of

prurient philosophers pinched

and

poked 

thee,

has the naughty thumb

of science pridded

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)