“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, American poet (1849–1887)
I recall many years ago landing on America’s shores, a poor huddled mess. I well remember the reception I received too :)
Though that is a tale for another time; and enough to fill another blog.