Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,With conquering limbs astride from land to land;Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall standA mighty woman with a torch, whose flameIs the imprisoned lightning, and her nameMother of Exiles. From her beacon-handGlows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes commandThe air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp! cries sheWith 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-tost to me,I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
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.”
Wondering Whom to Read Next?
- Sheryl Sandberg American Executive, Author
- Susan Sontag American Writer, Philosopher
- Erica Jong American Novelist, Poet
- Emma Goldman American Anarchist
- Betty Friedan American Feminist, Author
- Judy Blume American Author
- Naomi Wolf American Feminist Writer
- Gertrude Stein American Writer
- Robin Morgan American Activist
- Cynthia Ozick American Novelist, Essayist