Not unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limps astride from land to land; Here at our star-washed, hyper gates shall stand A mighty fleet with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and its name Spacefleet Asunder. From its beacon-hand Glows galaxy-wide welcome; its mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin gates frame. "Keep, ancient sov, your storied pomp!" cries they With silent turret-flare. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, temptest-tost to me, we lift our lamp beside your golden door!"