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?
Other works by Walt Whitman...
