Top 24 Quotes & Sayings by Emma Lazarus

Explore popular quotes and sayings by an American poet Emma Lazarus.
Last updated on December 3, 2024.
Emma Lazarus

Emma Lazarus was an American author of poetry, prose, and translations, as well as an activist for Jewish and Georgist causes. She is remembered for writing the sonnet "The New Colossus", which was inspired by the Statue of Liberty, in 1883. Its lines appear inscribed on a bronze plaque, installed in 1903, on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty. The last lines of the sonnet were set to music by Irving Berlin as the song "Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor" for the 1949 musical Miss Liberty, which was based on the sculpting of the Statue of Liberty. The latter part of the sonnet was also set by Lee Hoiby in his song "The Lady of the Harbor" written in 1985 as part of his song cycle "Three Women".

I am never going to write for the sake of writing.
Until we are all free, we are none of us free.
Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. — © Emma Lazarus
Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
Jews are the intensive form of any nationality whose language and customs they adopt.
The particular article ought in my opinion to be treated with absolute contempt. It is too vile to touch.
I am perfectly conscious that this contempt and hatred underlies the general tone of the community towards us, and yet when I even remotely hint at the fact that we are not a favorite people I am accused of stirring up strife and setting barriers between the two sects.
My own curiosity and interest are insatiable.
There is no comfort looking forth nor back, The present gives the lie to all her past.
I seem to have always one little window looking but into life.
Let our first care today be the re-establishment of our physical strength, the reconstruction of our national organism, so that in future, where the respect due to us cannot be won by entreaty, it may be commanded, and where it cannot be commanded, it may be enforced.
Life's sharpest rapture is surcease of pain.
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...
Naught is too small and soft to turn and sting.
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.
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.
The Jewish problem is as old as history, and assumes in each age a new form. The life or death of millions of human beings hangs upon its solution; its agitation revives the fiercest passions for good and for evil that inflame the human breast.
The little and the great are joined in one By God's great force. The wondrous golden sun Is linked unto the glow-worm's tiny spark; The eagle soars to heaven in his flight; And in those realms of space, all bathed in light, Soar none except the eagle and the lark.
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, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore, send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door.
When angels visit earth, the messengers Of God's decree, they come as lightning, wind: Before the throne, they all are living fire. — © Emma Lazarus
When angels visit earth, the messengers Of God's decree, they come as lightning, wind: Before the throne, they all are living fire.
Poetry must be simple, sensuous, or impassioned.
No man had ever heard a nightingale, When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred To study and define -- what is a bird.
Thick February mists cling heavily To the dead earth and to each leafless tree, And closer down upon the hilltops draw, Dull forecasts there of bright, sure-coming spring; Yet the heart gathers hope and strange delight From this dear, unlovely, wished-for sight Of leaden-misted twilights lengthening.
This site uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience. More info...
Got it!