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| Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, |
| With conquering limbs astride from land |
| to land; |
| Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates sha |
| ll stand |
| A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame |
| Is the imprisoned lightning, and her nam |
| e |
| 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, y |
| our poor, |
| Your huddled masses yearning to breathe |
| free, |
| The wretched refuse of your teeming shor |
| e. |
| Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost t |
| o me, |
| I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” |
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\ ^__^
\ (oo)\_______
(__)\ )\/\
||----w |
|| ||
