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!