Just as the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A fearless leader with a torch, whose flame
Is the unleashed misery, and his name
Torment of Exiles. From his warding-hand
Burns world-wide scorning; his wild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Bring, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries he
With blazing lips. “Take back your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses undeserved to breath free,
The wretched refuse of our teeming shore.
Send those, the richest, fortified to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
With thanks and apologies to Emma Lazarus.