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 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-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Does this spirit exist, any more? To hear it from President Obama, yes. To hear it from Donald Trump, no:
“If you look at the history of immigration in this country, each successive wave there have been periods where the folks who were already here have said, ‘Well I don’t want those folks,'” he said. “Even though the only people who have the right to say that are some Native Americans.”
…”Part of what America is about is stitching together folks from different backgrounds and different faiths and different ethnicities. That’s what makes us special and, look, let’s face it, sometimes that’s hard to do, but it’s worthwhile, it’s worth doing.”
Then, there’s the Trump spirit: he hates China for “destroying our economy”, outsources clothing manufacture in China, hates Mexicans for “being rapists, bringing diseases and being criminals,” hires them to build his hotel in our nation’s capitol.”