Like every ordinary visitor to New York, I looked across the water to the famous statue which stands forever waiting. As I tried to frame Miss Liberty against a threatening sky and through golden door-posts, the Lazarus lines ran through my mind:
“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!”
The water was calm. The torch with its imprisoned lightning has weathered many storms before.