Trickle, Drops

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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.

© Walt Whitman