[O sweet spontaneous]

BY 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 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)