The New Colossus

Jul 04, 2025

Emma Lazarus

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Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

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With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

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Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

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A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

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Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

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Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

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Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

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The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

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“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

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With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

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Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

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The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

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Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

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I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

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