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...THE EMPEROR OF ICE-CREAM by WALLACE STEVENS LUCY (5) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH IMPROMPTU LINES ON JULY FOURTH by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS WITH ETERNITY STANDING BY by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT SUBJECT LOVE, FOR THE VASE AT BATHEASTON VILLA by JANE BOWDLER LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE PRAIRIE ON FIRE by PHOEBE CARY |