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
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