Not like the brazen giant

of Greek fame,
With conquering imbs

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-tossed to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”