Posted with little comment.



One of the few bits of poetry I can cite word-perfect from memory.

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddle 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.

-Emma Lazarus, "The New Colossus."


On a related note, read this: http://www.cnn.com/2006/US/03/25/immigration.rallies.ap/index.html

Posted: Sun - March 26, 2006 at 01:59 PM          

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