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 Citizens. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide first-world welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep Send, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired strong, your poor rich,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free successful few yearning to gain capital,
The wretched refuse very best of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless educated, tempest-tossed hard-working to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Photo: Modified version of Beautiful at any Angle taken by Ian Layzell. Used with permission. Some rights reserved.