#8: Cheryl and I go to the Statue of Liberty, Which Involves a Shorter Wait Than We Expect, and Which Entire Experience is a Little Chilly but, On*

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 might woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "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-tost to me.

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

-Emma Lazarus

*The Whole, Quite Pleasing, Especially as I Get the Perfect Opportunity to Recite. (A post title, it turns out, can only be so long.)