Walt Whitman

O Bitter Sprig! Confession Sprig!

O BITTER sprig! Confession sprig! In the bouquet I give you place also—I bind you in, Proceeding no further till, humbled publicly, I give fair warning, once for all. I own that I have been sly, thievish, mean, a prevaricator, greedy, derelict, And I own that I remain so yet. What foul thought but I think it—or have in me the stuff out of which it is thought? What in darkness in bed at night, alone or with a companion?

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