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.
by e.e. cummings (formatting and punctuation altered)