The New Colossus by Mark Stone

January 2020. On the occasion of the impeachment trial vote, and in the wake of the State of the Union, when I take comfort on an evening run from seeing Lady Liberty's light shine bright in the dark of night, it seems appropriate to quote the full text that we so often abridge:

"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 homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'"

Mother of Exiles. For a nation created by exiles, what could be more American than that? Just let that sink in for a moment.

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