The Soul, At Peace, Reflects

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.

There Is No Comfort Looking Forth Nor Back, The Present Gives The Lie To All Her Past.

Naught Is Too Small And Soft To Turn And Sting.

Poetry Must Be Simple, Sensuous, Or Impassioned.

Jews Are The Intensive Form Of Any Nationality Whose Language And Customs They Adopt.