Bitter the cold that came in the night,
brought by the wind that blows from the east,
with never a bright star in the sky.
Bring me your huddled masses,
say the arches of the bridge,
we will give them the cold comfort
of dark stone and silent water,
where ruffled pigeons roost,
and stray cats lick their street wounds,
wearing shadows like a skin.
Bitter falls the light
from a thousand plate glass windows,
for none may therein enter
who cannot pay the keeper,
not the pigeons or the stray cats
or the sleepers in the arches.
Cold the river rolls
through the glitter of the city,
fragments caught up in the current
hurried down to the sea,
where peace comes falling softly
from the coping of the heavens,
echoed in the gentle whales’ songs,
cradled in the ocean’s arms.