A conversation over at Opie’s place led me to look this up:
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.
â€œ”Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!”â€ cries she
With silent lips. â€œGive 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!â€
Ahh, the lamp is lowered, the light is dim’d, the welcome gone.
And the hope of the world—
oh, never mind.