O Bitter Sprig! Confession Sprig! By 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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