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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-post to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door !
by Emma Lazarus, New York City, 1883
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