Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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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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