Trickle, Drops. by Walt Whitman
TRICKLE, drops! my blue veins leaving!
O drops of me! trickle, slow drops,
Candid, from me falling—drip, bleeding drops,
From wounds made to free you whence you were prison’d,
From my face—from my forehead and lips,
From my breast—from within where I was conceal’d—press forth, red drops—confession drops;
Stain every page—stain every song I sing, every word I say, bloody drops;
Let them know your scarlet heat—let them glisten;
Saturate them with yourself, all ashamed and wet;
Glow upon all I have written, or shall write, bleeding drops;
Let it all be seen in your light, blushing drops.