(22 July 1849 – 19 November 1887 / New York City / United States)

The New Colossus

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,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

User Rating: 3,4 / 5 ( 72 votes ) 9

Comments (9)

A masterful piece of poetry beautifully conceived and elegantly brought forth with artistic brilliance.
Colossal bullshit. Great poem.
A new sign in front of Liberty of Statue New Colossus closed for restoration Can not accept the tired and desolate Hungry and homeless beaten by fate Date of opening to be announced soon!
This used to be what America stood for. No longer. Tragic. And, the wording is perfect.
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