| Cm | | | | | Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, |
| F | | | | | With conquering limbs astride from land to land; |
| G# | | | | | Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand |
| G | | | | | A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame |
| Cm | | | | | Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name |
| F | | | | | Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand |
| G# | | | | | Glows world-wide welcome; Her mild eyes command |
| G | | | | | The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. |
| G# | | | | | "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she |
| F | | | | | With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, |
| G# | | | | | Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, |
| G | | | | | 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 |
|
| Cm | | | | Give me your | tired | Give me your poor huddled masses\ |
| F | F | G# | Bb | | yearning... to breathe free | | | Give me your |
| Cm | | | | Give me your | tired | Give me your wretched, your homeless |
| G# | G# | Bb | Bb | your | tempest tossed, send them to me |
| Cm | | | | Give me your | tired | the lost who are trying to get found |
| F | | | | Give me your | tired | looking for solid ground |
| Cm | | | | Give me your | 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 |