There Is No Comfort Looking Forth Nor

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.

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.

Naught Is Too Small And Soft To Turn And Sting.

Life's Sharpest Rapture Is Surcease Of Pain.

The Jewish Problem Is As Old As History, And Assumes In Each Age A New Form. The Life Or Death Of Millions Of Human Beings Hangs Upon Its Solution; Its Agitation Revives The Fiercest Passions For Good And For Evil That Inflame The Human Breast.