Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. |
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-tossed to me,/ I lift my lamp beside the golden door! |
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. |
His cup is gall, his meat is tears,/ His passion lasts a thousand years. |
Jews are the intensive form of any nationality whose language and customs they adopt. |
Life's sharpest rapture is surcease of pain |
Still on Israel's head forlorn,/ Every nation heaps its scorn. |