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!

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.

Jews are the intensive form of any nationality whose language and customs they adopt.

His cup is gall, his meat is tears,
His passion lasts a thousand years.

Still on Israel's head forlorn,
Every nation heaps its scorn.