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| Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
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| With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
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| Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
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| A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
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| Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
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| Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
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| Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
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| The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
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| "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
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| With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
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| Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
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| The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
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| Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
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