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, her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows worldwide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled 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!”
The lady with the lamp, the statue of liberty, stand in New York Harbor.
Her back is squarely turned on the USA. It’s no wonder, considering what
Would have to look upon. She would weep, if she had to face it.