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Best Famous Emma Lazarus Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Emma Lazarus poems. This is a select list of the best famous Emma Lazarus poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Emma Lazarus poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Emma Lazarus poems.

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Written by Emma Lazarus |

The New Colossus

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.
"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!"

Written by Emma Lazarus |

Chopin

 I

A dream of interlinking hands, of feet 
Tireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof 
Of the entangling waltz.
Bright eyebeams meet, Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof.
Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glow Of branching lights sets off the changeful charms Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, the dazzling snow Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms.
Hark to the music! How beneath the strain Of reckless revelry, vibrates and sobs One fundamental chord of constant pain, The pulse-beat of the poet's heart that throbs.
So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice, The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice.
II Who shall proclaim the golden fable false Of Orpheus' miracles? This subtle strain Above our prose-world's sordid loss and gain Lightly uplifts us.
With the rhythmic waltz, The lyric prelude, the nocturnal song Of love and languor, varied visions rise, That melt and blend to our enchanted eyes.
The Polish poet who sleeps silenced long, The seraph-souled musician, breathes again Eternal eloquence, immortal pain.
Revived the exalted face we know so well, The illuminated eyes, the fragile frame, Slowly consuming with its inward flame, We stir not, speak not, lest we break the spell.
III A voice was needed, sweet and true and fine As the sad spirit of the evening breeze, Throbbing with human passion, yet devine As the wild bird's untutored melodies.
A voice for him 'neath twilight heavens dim, Who mourneth for his dead, while round him fall The wan and noiseless leaves.
A voice for him Who sees the first green sprout, who hears the call Of the first robin on the first spring day.
A voice for all whom Fate hath set apart, Who, still misprized, must perish by the way, Longing with love, for that they lack the art Of their own soul's expression.
For all these Sing the unspoken hope, the vague, sad reveries.
IV Then Nature shaped a poet's heart--a lyre From out whose chords the lightest breeze that blows Drew trembling music, wakening sweet desire.
How shall she cherish him? Behold! she throws This precious, fragile treasure in the whirl Of seething passions; he is scourged and stung, Must dive in storm-vext seas, if but one pearl Of art or beauty therefrom may be wrung.
No pure-browed pensive nymph his Muse shall be, An amazon of thought with sovereign eyes, Whose kiss was poison, man-brained, worldy-wise, Inspired that elfin, delicate harmony.
Rich gain for us! But with him is it well? The poet who must sound earth, heaven, and hell!

Written by Emma Lazarus |

In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport

 Here, where the noises of the busy town, 
The ocean's plunge and roar can enter not,
We stand and gaze around with tearful awe,
And muse upon the consecrated spot.
No signs of life are here: the very prayers Inscribed around are in a language dead; The light of the "perpetual lamp" is spent That an undying radiance was to shed.
What prayers were in this temple offered up, Wrung from sad hearts that knew no joy on earth, By these lone exiles of a thousand years, From the fair sunrise land that gave them birth! How as we gaze, in this new world of light, Upon this relic of the days of old, The present vanishes, and tropic bloom And Eastern towns and temples we behold.
Again we see the patriarch with his flocks, The purple seas, the hot blue sky o'erhead, The slaves of Egypt, -- omens, mysteries, -- Dark fleeing hosts by flaming angels led.
A wondrous light upon a sky-kissed mount, A man who reads Jehovah's written law, 'Midst blinding glory and effulgence rare, Unto a people prone with reverent awe.
The pride of luxury's barbaric pomp, In the rich court of royal Solomon -- Alas! we wake: one scene alone remains, -- The exiles by the streams of Babylon.
Our softened voices send us back again But mournful echoes through the empty hall: Our footsteps have a strange unnatural sound, And with unwonted gentleness they fall.
The weary ones, the sad, the suffering, All found their comfort in the holy place, And children's gladness and men's gratitude 'Took voice and mingled in the chant of praise.
The funeral and the marriage, now, alas! We know not which is sadder to recall; For youth and happiness have followed age, And green grass lieth gently over all.
Nathless the sacred shrine is holy yet, With its lone floors where reverent feet once trod.
Take off your shoes as by the burning bush, Before the mystery of death and God.

Written by Emma Lazarus |

Marriage Bells

 Music and silver chimes and sunlit air, 
Freighted with the scent of honeyed orange-flower; 
Glad, friendly festal faces everywhere.
She, rapt from all in this unearthly hour, With cloudlike, cast-back veil and faint-flushed cheek, In bridal beauty moves as in a trance Alone with him, and fears to breathe, to speak, Lest the rare, subtle spell dissolve perchance.
But he upon that floral head looks down, Noting the misty eyes, the grave sweet brow-- Doubts if her bliss be perfect as his own, And dedicates anew with inward vow His soul unto her service, to repay Richly the sacrifice she yields this day.

Written by Emma Lazarus |

Echoes

 Late-born and woman-souled I dare not hope, 
The freshness of the elder lays, the might 
Of manly, modern passion shall alight 
Upon my Muse's lips, nor may I cope 
(Who veiled and screened by womanhood must grope) 
With the world's strong-armed warriors and recite 
The dangers, wounds, and triumphs of the fight; 
Twanging the full-stringed lyre through all its scope.
But if thou ever in some lake-floored cave O'erbrowed by rocks, a wild voice wooed and heard, Answering at once from heaven and earth and wave, Lending elf-music to thy harshest word, Misprize thou not these echoes that belong To one in love with solitude and song.

Written by Emma Lazarus |

Success

 Oft have I brooded on defeat and pain, 
The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng.
These I ignore to-day and only long To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain, One clear, grief-shattering, triumphant song, For all the victories of man's high endeavor, Palm-bearing, laurel deeds that live forever, The splendor clothing him whose will is strong.
Hast thou beheld the deep, glad eyes of one Who has persisted and achieved? Rejoice! On naught diviner shines the all-seeing sun.
Salute him with free heart and choral voice, 'Midst flippant, feeble crowds of spectres wan, The bold, significant, successful man.

Written by Emma Lazarus |

Echoes

 THE MIGHT that shaped itself through storm and stress
In chaos, here is lulled in breathing sweet;
Under the long brown ridge in gentleness
 Its fierce old pulses beat.
Quiet and sad we go at eve; the fire That woke exultant in an earlier day Is dead; the memories of old desire Only in shadows play.
We liken love to this and that; our thought The echo of a deeper being seems: We kiss, because God once for beauty sought Within a world of dreams.

Written by Emma Lazarus |

Symphonic Studies (After Schumann)

 Prelude 

Blue storm-clouds in hot heavens of mid-July 
Hung heavy, brooding over land and sea: 
Our hearts, a-tremble, throbbed in harmony 
With the wild, restless tone of air and sky.
Shall we not call im Prospero who held In his enchanted hands the fateful key Of that tempestuous hour's mystery, And with controlling wand our spirits spelled, With him to wander by a sun-bright shore, To hear fine, fairy voices, and to fly With disembodied Ariel once more Above earth's wrack and ruin? Far and nigh The laughter of the thunder echoed loud, And harmless lightnings leapt from cloud to cloud.
I Floating upon a swelling wave of sound, We seemed to overlook an endless sea: Poised 'twixt clear heavens and glittering surf were we.
We drank the air in flight: we knew no bound To the audacious ventures of desire.
Nigh us the sun was dropping, drowned in gold; Deep, deep below the burning billows rolled; And all the sea sang like a smitten lyre.
Oh, the wild voices of those chanting waves! The human faces glimpsed beneath the tide! Familiar eyes gazed from profound sea-caves, And we, exalted, were as we had died.
We knew the sea was Life, the harmonious cry The blended discords of humanity.
II Look deeper yet: mark 'midst the wave-blurred mass, In lines distinct, in colors clear defined, The typic groups and figures of mankind.
Behold within the cool and liquid glass Bright child-folk sporting with smooth yellow shells, Astride of dolphins, leaping up to kiss Fair mother-faces.
From the vast abyss How joyously their thought-free laughter wells! Some slumber in grim caverns unafraid, Lulled by the overwhelming water's sound, And some make mouths at dragons, undismayed.
Oh dauntless innocence! The gulfs profound Reëcho strangely with their ringing glee, And with wise mermaids' plaintive melody.
III What do the sea-nymphs in that coral cave? With wondering eyes their supple forms they bend O'er something rarely beautiful.
They lend Their lithe white arms, and through the golden wave They lift it tenderly.
Oh blinding sight! A naked, radiant goddess, tranced in sleep, Full-limbed, voluptuous, 'neath the mantling sweep Of auburn locks that kiss her ankles white! Upward they bear her, chanting low and sweet: The clinging waters part before their way, Jewels of flame are dancing 'neath their feet.
Up in the sunshine, on soft foam, they lay Their precious burden, and return forlorn.
Oh, bliss! oh, anguish! Mortals, Love is born! IV Hark! from unfathomable deeps a dirge Swells sobbing through the melancholy air: Where love has entered, Death is also there.
The wail outrings the chafed, tumultuous surge; Ocean and earth, the illimitable skies, Prolong one note, a mourning for the dead, The cry of souls not to be comforted.
What piercing music! Funeral visions rise, And send the hot tears raining down our cheek.
We see the silent grave upon the hill With its lone lilac-bush.
O heart, be still! She will not rise, she will not stir nor speak.
Surely, the unreturning dead are blest.
Ring on, sweet dirge, and knell us to our rest! V Upon the silver beach the undines dance With interlinking arms and flying hair; Like polished marble gleam their limbs left bare; Upon their virgin rites pale moonbeams glance.
Softer the music! for their foam-bright feet Print not the moist floor where they trip their round: Affrighted they will scatter at a sound, Leap in their cool sea-chambers, nibly fleet, And we shall doubt that we have ever seen, While our sane eyes behold stray wreaths of mist, Shot with faint colors by the moon-rays kissed, Floating snow-soft, snow-white, where these had been.
Already, look! the wave-washed sands are bare, And mocking laughter ripples through the air.
VI Divided 'twixt the dream-world and the real, We heard the waxing passion of the song Soar as to scale the heavens on pinions strong.
Amidst the long-reverberant thunder-peal, Against the rain-blurred square of light, the head Of the pale poet at the lyric keys Stood boldly cut, absorbed in reveries, While over it keen-bladed lightnings played.
"Rage on, wild storm!" the music seemed to sing: "Not all the thunders of thy wrath can move The soul that's dedicate to worshipping Eternal Beauty, everlasting Love.
" No more! the song was ended, and behold, A rainbow trembling on a sky of gold! Epilogue Forth in the sunlit, rain-bathed air we stepped, Sweet with the dripping grass and flowering vine, And saw through irised clouds the pale sun shine.
Back o'er the hills the rain-mist slowly crept Like a transparent curtain's silvery sheen; And fronting us the painted bow was arched, Whereunder the majestic cloud-shapes marched: In the wet, yellow light the dazzling green Of lawn and bush and tree seemed stained with blue.
Our hearts o'erflowed with peace.
With smiles we spake Of partings in the past, of courage new, Of high achievement, of the dreams that make A wonder and a glory of our days, And all life's music but a hymn of praise.

Written by Emma Lazarus |

Life and Art

 Not while the fever of the blood is strong, 
The heart throbs loud, the eyes are veiled, no less 
With passion than with tears, the Muse shall bless 
The poet-sould to help and soothe with song.
Not then she bids his trembling lips express The aching gladness, the voluptuous pain.
Life is his poem then; flesh, sense, and brain One full-stringed lyre attuned to happiness.
But when the dream is done, the pulses fail, The day's illusion, with the day's sun set, He, lonely in the twilight, sees the pale Divine Consoler, featured like Regret, Enter and clasp his hand and kiss his brow.
Then his lips ope to sing--as mine do now.

Written by Emma Lazarus |

The Supreme Sacrifice

 Well-nigh two thousand years hath Israel 
Suffered the scorn of man for love of God; 
Endured the outlaw's ban, the yoke, the rod, 
With perfect patience.
Empires rose and fell, Around him Nebo was adored and Bel; Edom was drunk with victory, and trod On his high places, while the sacred sod Was desecrated by the infidel.
His faith proved steadfast, without breach or flaw, But now the last renouncement is required.
His truth prevails, his God is God, his Law Is found the wisdom most to be desired.
Not his the glory! He, maligned, misknown, Bows his meek head, and says, "Thy will be done!"

Written by Emma Lazarus |

Long Island Sound

 I see it as it looked one afternoon 
In August,-by a fresh soft breeze o'erblown.
The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon, A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.
The shining waters with pale currents strewn, The quiet fishing-smacks, the Eastern cove, The semi-circle of its dark, green grove.
The luminous grasses, and the merry sun In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide, Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide, Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon.
All these fair sounds and sights I made my own.

Written by Emma Lazarus |

1492

 Thou two-faced year, Mother of Change and Fate, 
Didst weep when Spain cast forth with flaming sword, 
The children of the prophets of the Lord, 
Prince, priest, and people, spurned by zealot hate.
Hounded from sea to sea, from state to state, The West refused them, and the East abhorred.
No anchorage the known world could afford, Close-locked was every port, barred every gate.
Then smiling, thou unveil'dst, O two-faced year, A virgin world where doors of sunset part, Saying, "Ho, all who weary, enter here! There falls each ancient barrier that the art Of race or creed or rank devised, to rear Grim bulwarked hatred between heart and heart!"

Written by Emma Lazarus |

The Cranes of Ibicus

 Here was a man who watched the river flow 
Past the huge town, one gray November day.
Round him in narrow high-piled streets at play The boys made merry as they saw him go, Murmuring half-loud, with eyes upon the stream, The immortal screed he held within his hand.
For he was walking in an April land With Faust and Helen.
Shadowy as a dream Was the prose-world, the river and the town.
Wild joy possessed him; through enchanted skies He saw the cranes of Ibycus swoop down.
He closed the page, he lifted up his eyes, Lo--a black line of birds in wavering thread Bore him the greetings of the deathless dead!

Written by Emma Lazarus |

Venus of the Louvre

 Down the long hall she glistens like a star, 
The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone, 
Yet none the less immortal, breathing on.
Time's brutal hand hath maimed but could not mar.
When first the enthralled enchantress from afar Dazzled mine eyes, I saw not her alone, Serenely poised on her world-worshipped throne, As when she guided once her dove-drawn car,-- But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew, Her life adorer, sobbed farewell to love.
Here Heine wept! Here still he weeps anew, Nor ever shall his shadow lift or move, While mourns one ardent heart, one poet-brain, For vanished Hellas and Hebraic plain.

Written by Emma Lazarus |

The New Ezekiel

  What, can these dead bones live, whose sap is dried 
By twenty scorching centuries of wrong? 
Is this the House of Israel, whose pride 
Is as a tale that's told, an ancient song? 
Are these ignoble relics all that live 
Of psalmist, priest, and prophet? Can the breath 
Of very heaven bid these bones revive, 
Open the graves and clothe the ribs of death? 

Yea, Prophesy, the Lord hath said.
Again Say to the wind, Come forth and breathe afresh, Even that they may live upon these slain, And bone to bone shall leap, and flesh to flesh.
The Spirit is not dead, proclaim the word, Where lay dead bones, a host of armed men stand! I ope your graves, my people, saith the Lord, And I shall place you living in your land.