Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,<br> With conquering limbs astride from land to land;<br> Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand<br> A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame<br> Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name<br> Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand<br> Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command<br> The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.<br> "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she<br> With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,<br> Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,<br> The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.<br> Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,<br> I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"