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133 MIKHAIL HOROWITZ The Second Coming of the New Colossus Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon A mighty woman, with a torch whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name, Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp! cries she With A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Send me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to lift my lamp beside the golden door. ...


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