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 be free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Written in aid of the Bartholdi Pedestal Fund, 1883.
The New Colossus
Emma Lazarus
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Poem topics: mother, poor, sea, sunset, woman, world, shore, wide, door, beacon, lamp, silent, ancient, flame, stand, tired, golden, command, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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Myra Katz: This statue was the first thing all four of my grandparents saw of their new world. I had the honor of the same view when my husband and I returned for a trip to Europ. I stood on the ship's deck and had the privilege of sharing the money with a couple who were emigrating here that day.
It was a moment I will never forget.
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