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