| Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917. | | | | The New Colossus | | 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 | 5 |
| Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand | |
| Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command | |
| The air-bridged harbour that twin cities frame. | |
| “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she | |
| With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, | 10 |
| 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!” | | | | |
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