Emma Lazarus (1849–1887)

IT comes not in such wise as she had deemed,

Else might she still have clung to her despair.

More tender, grateful than she could have dreamed,

Fond hands passed pitying over brows and hair,

And gentle words borne softly through the air,

Calming her weary sense and wildered mind,

By welcome, dear communion with her kind….

One who through conquered trouble had grown wise,

To read the grief unspoken, unexpressed,

The misery of the blank and heavy eyes,—

Or through youth’s infinite compassion guessed

The heavy burden,—such a one brought rest,

And bade her lay aside her doubts and fears,

While the hard pain dissolved in blessed tears.