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. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide 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,
And I will lift my lamp beside the golden door
tired Give me your poor huddled masses\
yearning... to breathe free Give me your
tired Give me your wretched, your homeless
tempest tossed, send them to me
tired the lost who are trying to get found
tired looking for solid ground
tired
And I see you. Your hope and your courage, on your distant teeming shore
And I'm standing lifting my lamp beside that golden door
