Walt Whitman
Behold this swarthy face—these gray eyes,
  This beard—the white wool, unclipt upon my neck,
  My brown hands, and the silent manner of me, without charm;
  Yet comes one, a Manhattanese, and ever at parting, kisses me lightly
        on the lips with robust love,
  And I, on the crossing of the street, or on the ship’s deck, give a
        kiss in return;
  We observe that salute of American comrades, land and sea,
  We are those two natural and nonchalant persons.
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