O sweet spontaneous

    earth how often have

    the

    doting¹

    fingers of

    prurient² philosophers pinched

    and

    poked³

    thee

    has the naughty thumb

    of science prodded⁴

    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）