5 points ·
Oh the irony:
>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!"`