Therefore I dare reveal my private woe,
The secret blots of my imperfect heart,
Nor strive to shrink or swell mine own desert,
Nor beautify nor hide. For this I know,
That even as I am, thou also art.
Thou past heroic forms unmoved shalt go,
To pause and bide with me, to whisper low:
"Not I alone am weak, not I apart
Must suffer, struggle, conquer day by day.
Here is my very cross by strangers borne,
Here is my bosom-sin wherefrom I pray
Hourly deliverance--this my rose, my thorn.
This woman my soul's need can understand,
Stretching o'er silent gulfs her sister hand."
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Comments about this poem (Sympathy by Emma Lazarus )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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