The New
Colossus by Emma Lazarus
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 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,
With silent lips. 'Give me your tired, your poor,
Your
huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
“Send
these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me;
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'
