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Poem	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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