There Is No Comfort Looking Forth Nor

The Jewish Problem Is As Old As History, And Assumes In Each Age A New Form. The Life Or Death Of Millions Of Human Beings Hangs Upon Its Solution; Its Agitation Revives The Fiercest Passions For Good And For Evil That Inflame The Human Breast.

Poetry Must Be Simple, Sensuous, Or Impassioned.

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.

Still Ours The Dance, The Feast, The Glorious Psalm, The Mystic Lights Of Emblem, And The Word.

Thick February Mists Cling Heavily To The Dead Earth And To Each Leafless Tree, And Closer Down Upon The Hilltops Draw, Dull Forecasts There Of Bright, Sure-coming Spring; Yet The Heart Gathers Hope And Strange Delight From This Dear, Unlovely, Wished-for Sight Of Leaden-misted Twilights Lengthening.