By Joan Brown Wettingfeld
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.