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 '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 http://rebirthofreason.com/Forum/ArticleDiscussions/2217_2.shtml#55
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