O

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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 rythmic lover
thou answerest them only with 

	       
		spring
	      
)