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!”





