Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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BEHOLD this swarthy face, this unrefined face—these
gray eyes,

This beard—the white wool, unclipt upon my neck,

My brown hands, and the silent manner of me, with-
out charm;

Yet comes one, a Manhattanese, and ever at parting,
kisses me lightly on the lips with robust love,

And I, in the public room, or on the crossing of the
street, or on the ship's deck, kiss him in return;

We observe that salute of American comrades, land
and sea,

We are those two natural and nonchalant persons.

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