By our sunset gate,
The Mother of Exiles weeps –
Weeps for her children,
Both for the fearful elder,
And the youngest just off shore.

What amazes her:
Fear is no substitute for,
“The New Colossus,”
And the elder’s prejudice,
Does not ring true in her heart.

No, not in this house.
Here, at this Golden Doorway,
We do bathe in fear,
Nor do we take in those ships
Whose standard bears such hatred.

With these silent lips-
Nay, they cannot be silent!
We are guardians!
Tempest-tost we may have been,
But now we hold high the torch!

Eyes dry and bloodshot
Back breaking under the strain
Parched lips and dry skin
Cold nights with colder to come
And we turn our backs in fear?