In Which I Write Things Down

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs and trunkless legs of stone
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned. From her beacon-hand
Which yet survives, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, cries she
With silent lips: “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

---Avram Grumer, Oct. 5, 2006
at http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/008061.html