Here stands the brazen giant of our land,
His hands raised up in triumph to the skies;
And at his feet, the new Colossus cries.
There lies the torch, the broken crown, her hand
Cut at the wrist, her mouth sewn shut. A brand
Emblazoned gilt upon her cheek calls flies,
And blood drips slowly from between her thighs.
The golden door slams shut at his demand.
"Keep now your tired, your poor, your tempest-tost,
And those who flee from tyrants' stranglehold.
For there's no refuge here for all the lost,
The frightened girl, the suckling babe, the old,
They have no place but hell, this wretched dross.
Raise up the wall. Cast all these to the cold."