THE NEW COLOSSUS
Not like the brazen giant of
Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride
from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset
gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch,
whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and
her name
Mother of Exiles. From her
beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her
mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin
cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your
storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me
your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to
breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your
teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless,
tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden
door!"
-- Emma Lazarus
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