Still Spring, still 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)