I Seem To Have Always One Little

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

When Angels Visit Earth, The Messengers Of God's Decree, They Come As Lightning, Wind: Before The Throne, They All Are Living Fire.

Until We Are All Free, We Are None Of Us Free.

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.

Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses Yearning To Breathe Free.