"Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering lims 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-brigded harbor that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pom!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddle masses yearning to breath free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
