Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your

Jews Are The Intensive Form Of Any Nationality Whose Language And Customs They Adopt.

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.

The Soul, At Peace, Reflects The Peace Without, Forgetting Grief As Sunset Skies Forget The Morning's Transient Shower.

Thou Two-faced Year, Mother Of Change And Fate...

My Own Curiosity And Interest Are Insatiable.