Quotes from Emma Lazarus

I am never going to write for the sake of writing.

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...

Poetry must be simple, sensuous, or impassioned.

When angels visit earth, the messengers Of God's decree, they come as lightning, wind: Before the throne, they all are living fire.

Life's sharpest rapture is surcease of pain.

I seem to have always one little window looking but into life.

Kindle the taper like the steadfast star Ablaze on evening's forehead o'er the earth, And add each night a lustre till afar An eightfold splendor shine above thy hearth.

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.

Still ours the dance, the feast, the glorious Psalm, The mystic lights of emblem, and the Word.

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. - Engrved on Statue of Liberty

Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

Until we are all free, we are none of us free.

and woman must wait and weep.

Berikan kepadaku mereka yang lelah dan papa Yang terbelenggu dan mendambakan kebebasan Yang terbanting ke pantaimu, berimpitan lemas Beri aku para gelandangan, dan yang terhempas Akan kunyalakan pelitaku di sisi gerbang emas

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!

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.

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

Send these, the homeless, tempest toss'd, to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

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.

My own curiosity and interest are insatiable.

No man had ever heard a nightingale, When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred To study and define -- what is a bird.

The particular article ought in my opinion to be treated with absolute contempt. It is too vile to touch.

Until we are all free, we are none of us free.