Emma Lazarus

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

Emma Lazarus Poems

41. The Birth Of Man 4/16/2010
42. Links 4/16/2010
43. The Guardian Of The Red Disk 4/16/2010
44. The Feast Of Lights 4/16/2010
45. In Memoriam 4/16/2010
46. Tannhauser 4/16/2010
47. Sic Semper Liberatoribus! 4/16/2010
48. The South 4/16/2010
49. Fra Pedro 4/16/2010
50. Magnetism 4/16/2010
51. An Epistle 4/16/2010
52. A Masque Of Venice 4/16/2010
53. Don Pedrillo 4/16/2010
54. Orpheus 4/16/2010
55. Arabesque 4/16/2010
56. Admetus: To My Friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson 4/16/2010
57. Afternoon 4/16/2010
58. Lohengrin: Proem 4/16/2010
59. Exultation 4/16/2010
60. Don Rafael 4/16/2010
61. Spring Longing 4/16/2010
62. Raschi In Prague 4/16/2010
63. Epochs 4/16/2010
64. In Memoriam—rev. J. J. Lyons 4/16/2010
65. Fog 4/16/2010
66. Dreams 4/16/2010
67. Florence Nightingale 4/16/2010
68. Autumn Sadness 4/16/2010
69. The Supreme Sacrifice 1/3/2003
70. To R.W.E. 1/3/2003
71. The Taming Of The Falcon 1/3/2003
72. Venus Of The Louvre 1/3/2003
73. St Michael's Chapel 1/3/2003
74. The Crowing Of The Red Cock 1/3/2003
75. From One Augur To Another 1/3/2003
76. The New Ezekiel 1/3/2003
77. Critic And Poet: An Epilogue 1/3/2003
78. Symphonic Studies (After Schumann) 1/3/2003
79. The Cranes Of Ibicus 1/3/2003
80. Long Island Sound 1/3/2003

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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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