The
New Colossus
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!"