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!"
This poem is in the public domain.
There's a place the man always say Come in here, child No cause you should weep Wolf never catch such a rabbit Golden hair never turn white with grief Come in here, child No cause you should moan Brother never hurt his brother Nobody here ever wander without a home There must be some such place somewhere But I never heard of it
From We Meet by Kenneth Patchen. Copyright © 2008 by Kenneth Patchen. Used by permission of New Directions. All rights reserved.