Emma Lazarus

(22 July 1849 – 19 November 1887 / New York City / United States)

Emma Lazarus Poems

1. Niagara 3/27/2012
2. To Carmen Sylva 4/16/2010
3. The Valley Of Baca 4/16/2010
4. The Death Of Raschi 4/16/2010
5. Marjorie’s Wooing 4/16/2010
6. Sonnet 4/16/2010
7. Song From Heine 4/16/2010
8. Matins 4/16/2010
9. Morning 4/16/2010
10. How Long? 4/16/2010
11. In A Swedish Graveyard 4/16/2010
12. Mater Amabilis 4/16/2010
13. The Day Of Dead Soldiers 4/16/2010
14. Gifts 4/16/2010
15. August Moon 4/16/2010
16. The Elixir 4/16/2010
17. The South 4/16/2010
18. The Garden Of Adonis 4/16/2010
19. The World’s Justice 4/16/2010
20. Saint Romualdo 4/16/2010
21. Lohengrin 4/16/2010
22. On A Tuft Of Grass 4/16/2010
23. In Exile 4/16/2010
24. Reality 4/16/2010
25. Off Rough Point 4/16/2010
26. On The Proposal To Erect A Monument In England To Lord Byron 4/16/2010
27. The Choice 4/16/2010
28. Song 4/16/2010
29. Idyl 4/16/2010
30. Wings 4/16/2010
31. Heroes 4/16/2010
32. Sunrise 4/16/2010
33. Spring Star 4/16/2010
34. Links 4/16/2010
35. Youth And Death 4/16/2010
36. The Birth Of Man 4/16/2010
37. The Guardian Of The Red Disk 4/16/2010
38. The Feast Of Lights 4/16/2010
39. In Memoriam 4/16/2010
40. Tannhauser 4/16/2010
Best Poem of Emma Lazarus

The New Colossus

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. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the ...

Read the full of The New Colossus

The Cranes Of Ibicus

Here was a man who watched the river flow
Past the huge town, one gray November day.
Round him in narrow high-piled streets at play
The boys made merry as they saw him go,
Murmuring half-loud, with eyes upon the stream,
The immortal screed he held within his hand.
For he was walking in an April land
With Faust and Helen. Shadowy as a dream
Was the prose-world, the river and the town.

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