Not like the copper giant of American fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sun-washed, eastern gates shall stand
Straight a mother of dried tears, whose flame
Is Akeidat Yitzchak, and her name
Mother Zion. From her beacon
Glows world-wide justice; her soft eyes lighten
The hills and valleys our forefathers frame.
“Keep, newfangled lands, your pompous stories!” cries she
With outstretched arms. “Give me your tired, your poor Jews,
Huddled masses yearning to flee thee,
The scattered remnants by hostile shore.
Send my doves back home, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
