By Emma Lazarus
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!”
Categories: Sister Sirens
The Gloria Sirens 
Reblogged this on I just have to say… and commented:
Susan Lilley shares this poem, noting the irony considering what is happening at our border with Mexico. A most fitting poem for today.
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Thanks for this. I thought of this poem yesterday as I saw news reports of Murietta residents screaming “go home” and worse at a busload of refugees–mostly children–who are fleeing unspeakable violence and poverty. As a first generation native-born American with pride for what my grandparents and parents accomplished in and for their adopted countries, I am ashamed at the lack of compassion some of our citizens display, and I say we make a big mistake if we turn away people with the resilience and drive to make a better life for themselves.
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I feel the same, Mary Ann–the absolute short-sighted nastiness of those proud American citizens disappoints me so much. They need a history lesson this 4th of July.
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Reblogged this on Lisa Lanser Rose and commented:
An Independence Day poem to remind us of our generosity of spirit. Love is all we need.
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