The New Colossus

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!"

Emma Lazarus

Long island Sound

I SEE it as it looked one afternoon

In August,-by a fresh soft breeze o'erblown.

The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon,

A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.

The shining waters with pale currents strewn,

The quiet fishing-smacks, the Eastern cove,

The semi-circle of its dark, green grove.

The luminous grasses, and the merry sun

In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide,

Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp

Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide,

Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep

Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon.

All these fair sounds and sights I made my own.

Emma Lazarus

Success

OFT have I brooded on defeat and pain,

The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng.

These I ignore to-day and only long

To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain,

One clear, grief-shattering, triumphant song,

For all the victories of man's high endeavor,

Palm-bearing, laurel deeds that live forever,

The splendor clothing him whose will is strong.

Hast thou beheld the deep, glad eyes of one

Who has persisted and achieved? Rejoice!

On naught diviner shines the all-seeing sun.

Salute him with free heart and choral voice,

'Midst flippant, feeble crowds of spectres wan,

The bold, significant, successful man.

Emma Lazarus