by Emma Lazarus
(1849‑1887)
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 harbour that twin
cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp," cried 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!"