| Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door! 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 hi how are you doing 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 |
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| "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.
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