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 imprisoned lightning,
and her name Mother of Exiles.
From her beacon–hand Glows world wide welcome;
her mind eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities
frame,
“Keep, your ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries 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-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside
the golden door.” Emma Lazarus
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