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 women 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
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your
Your huddles 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!"

                                                       -Emma Lazarus

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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