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.
I am perfectly conscious that this contempt and hatred underlies the general tone of the community towards us, and yet when I even remotely hint at the fact that we are not a favorite people I am accused of stirring up strife and setting barriers between the two sects.
My own curiosity and interest are insatiable.
Jews are the intensive form of any nationality whose language and customs they adopt.
I am never going to write for the sake of writing.
The particular article ought in my opinion to be treated with absolute contempt. It is too vile to touch.
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.
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.
Life's sharpest rapture is surcease of pain.
Let our first care today be the re-establishment of our physical strength, the reconstruction of our national organism, so that in future, where the respect due to us cannot be won by entreaty, it may be commanded, and where it cannot be commanded, it may be enforced.
There is no comfort looking forth nor back, The present gives the lie to all her past.
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.
When angels visit earth, the messengers Of God's decree, they come as lightning, wind: Before the throne, they all are living fire.
I seem to have always one little window looking but into life.
Thou two-faced year, Mother of Change and Fate ...
The little and the great are joined in one By God's great force. The wondrous golden sun Is linked unto the glow-worm's tiny spark; The eagle soars to heaven in his flight; And in those realms of space, all bathed in light, Soar none except the eagle and the lark.
The soul, at peace, reflects the peace without, Forgetting grief as sunset skies forget The morning's transient shower.
No man had ever heard a nightingale, When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred To study and define -- what is a bird.
Naught is too small and soft to turn and sting.
Thick February mists cling heavily To the dead earth and to each leafless tree, And closer down upon the hilltops draw, Dull forecasts there of bright, sure-coming spring; Yet the heart gathers hope and strange delight From this dear, unlovely, wished-for sight Of leaden-misted twilights lengthening.
Poetry must be simple, sensuous, or impassioned.
Kindle the taper like the steadfast star Ablaze on evening's forehead o'er the earth, And add each night a lustre till afar An eightfold splendor shine above thy hearth.
Until we are all free, we are none of us free.
Still ours the dance, the feast, the glorious Psalm, The mystic lights of emblem, and the Word.
And woman must wait and weep.
