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!”
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