To the Editor:

The following are not my words, but from someone far wiser than many of us living today:

“... Here at our sea-washed shores, sunset gates shall stand,

A mighty 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-tossed to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Where have these words gone, and what more is there to say?

Lewis Siegel

Prospect Street, July 19