Emma Lazarus

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

Emma Lazarus Poems

1. Work 6/29/2015
2. The New Year 4/26/2016
3. Niagara 3/27/2012
4. To Carmen Sylva 4/16/2010
5. The Valley Of Baca 4/16/2010
6. The Death Of Raschi 4/16/2010
7. Marjorie’s Wooing 4/16/2010
8. Sonnet 4/16/2010
9. Song From Heine 4/16/2010
10. Matins 4/16/2010
11. Morning 4/16/2010
12. How Long? 4/16/2010
13. In A Swedish Graveyard 4/16/2010
14. Mater Amabilis 4/16/2010
15. Phantasies 4/16/2010
16. The Day Of Dead Soldiers 4/16/2010
17. Gifts 4/16/2010
18. The Elixir 4/16/2010
19. August Moon 4/16/2010
20. The Garden Of Adonis 4/16/2010
21. The Banner Of The Jew 4/16/2010
22. The South 4/16/2010
23. The World’s Justice 4/16/2010
24. Saint Romualdo 4/16/2010
25. Lohengrin 4/16/2010
26. Agamemnon’s Tomb 4/16/2010
27. On A Tuft Of Grass 4/16/2010
28. In Exile 4/16/2010
29. Reality 4/16/2010
30. Off Rough Point 4/16/2010
31. Restlessness 4/16/2010
32. On The Proposal To Erect A Monument In England To Lord Byron 4/16/2010
33. The Choice 4/16/2010
34. Bar Kochba 4/16/2010
35. Idyl 4/16/2010
36. Song 4/16/2010
37. Wings 4/16/2010
38. Heroes 4/16/2010
39. Sunrise 4/16/2010
40. Spring Star 4/16/2010

Comments about Emma Lazarus

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  • Mohammed Asim Nehal (2/13/2019 9:04:00 AM)

    A wonderful poetess but got the recognition very lat almost 100 years after her death.

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
Best Poem of Emma Lazarus

Echoes

Late-born and woman-souled I dare not hope,
The freshness of the elder lays, the might
Of manly, modern passion shall alight
Upon my Muse's lips, nor may I cope
(Who veiled and screened by womanhood must grope)
With the world's strong-armed warriors and recite
The dangers, wounds, and triumphs of the fight;
Twanging the full-stringed lyre through all its scope.
But if thou ever in some lake-floored cave
O'erbrowed by rocks, a wild voice wooed and heard,
Answering at once from heaven and earth and wave,
Lending elf-music to thy harshest word, ...

Read the full of Echoes

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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