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 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!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A DOUBTFUL CHOICE by EDWARD DE VERE MADRIGAL: 1 by WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN SEVEN TIMES FOUR [ - MATERNITY] by JEAN INGELOW THE MYSTERIOUS CAT by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY THE CAPTAINS OF THE YEARS by ARTHUR RAYMOND MACDOUGALL JR. TIME'S REVENGE by AGATHIAS SCHOLASTICUS A BLESSING FOR THE BLESSED by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA |