Trickle, Drops. by Walt Whitman
TRICKLE, drops! my blue veins leaving!
O drops of me! trickle, slow drops,
Candid, from me fallingâ€”drip, bleeding drops,
From wounds made to free you whence you were prisonâ€™d,
From my faceâ€”from my forehead and lips,
From my breastâ€”from within where I was concealâ€™dâ€”press forth, red dropsâ€”confession drops;
Stain every pageâ€”stain every song I sing, every word I say, bloody drops;
Let them know your scarlet heatâ€”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.