Not like the copper giantess of fame,
With sandaled feet upon Atlantic sand.
Here at our sea-washed sunrise gates are banned
Those the woman with her torch once claimed.
Those souls imprisoned, those who cried her name:
"Mother of Exiles," from whose beacon-hand
Glowed world-wide welcome. Now her eyes command
The ne'er-bridged walls along which rifles aim.
"Keep, broken lands, your harried poor!" cries she
With smiling lips. "Give me your trade. Your poor,
Your huddled ma**es, matter not to me,
Nor wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, to some other lee.
I douse my lamp; just send your gold ashore.
Mother of Exiles lives here no more.
My lamp lies shattered on the shore
And blind, I seek the shards.
Mother of Exiles—weeping in the bone yards."