No Man Had Ever Heard A Nightingale,

Poetry Must Be Simple, Sensuous, Or Impassioned.

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.

Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses Yearning To Breathe Free.

I Seem To Have Always One Little Window Looking But Into Life.

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-tossed, To Me: I Lift My Lamp Beside The Golden Door.