Give me your tired, your poor, Indeed, waves of wretched refuse did wash-up on America's shore: the Irish fled the Emerald Isle to escape the potato famine; Jews escaped marauding Cossacks and Russian...
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
Poem on the Statue of Liberty, Emma Lazarus