The Irish in America at the Little Museum of Dublin

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! 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 mighty woman with a torch, whose flame is the imprisoned lightning, And her name, Mother…
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AUTUMN/WINTER EDIT