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, torch held high to strike.

Its flame is the imprisoned lightning,
and her name, Stepmother of Exiles.
From her beacon-hand it glares, blinding the world;
her hollow eyes scan the air-bridged harbor,
seeing nothing, calling no one near.

”Keep, ancient lands, your poor, your wretched!”
cries she with silent lips.
”Give me your gold, your oil, your grain—
these I shall take, and leave you none.”

”Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these away—the homeless, tempest-tost!
For I shall bolt the iron gate!”