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!"
I’m not posting this because I particularly rate it. I just find it interesting, as a kind of nexus for multifarious issues, from poetry and art, to race and identity, nationalism and compassion, etc.
For those who don’t get it, the misquoted title is a reference to Count Arthur Strong, a contemporary comic icon who I really love.
As my uncle Terry occasionally notes/laments, things like blogs are often quite shallow. However, I make no apologies for the degrees to which I take my interests; sometimes I dive deeper, others I don’t.
On this occasion this is really just a place for me to note the existence of the famed poem, not explore its many tendrils of potential meanings or interpretations.