Top 15 Emma Lazarus Quotes

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

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-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

Until we are all free, we are none of us free.

"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!"

and woman must wait and weep.

Berikan kepadaku mereka yang lelah dan papa
Yang terbelenggu dan mendambakan kebebasan
Yang terbanting ke pantaimu, berimpitan lemas
Beri aku para gelandangan, dan yang terhempas
Akan kunyalakan pelitaku di sisi gerbang emas

The Jewish problem is as old as history and assumes in each age a new form. All the magnanimity, patience, charity, and humanity, which the Jews have manifested in return for centuries of persecution, have been thus far inadequate to eradicate the profound antipathy engendered by fanaticism and ready to break out in one or another shape at any moment of popular excitement.

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!

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.

Lo — a black line of birds in wavering thread
Bore him the greetings of the deathless dead!

A lady 'twixt two knights' stone effigies,
And every day in dusky glory steeps
Their sculptured slumber of five centuries.

The funeral and the marriage, now, alas!
We know not which is sadder to recall.

Alas! we wake: one scene alone remains, —
The exiles by the streams of Babylon.

No signs of life are here: the very prayers
Inscribed around are in a language dead.

No man had ever heard a nightingale,
When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred
To study and define — what is a bird.