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No rock so hard but that a little wave
May beat admission in a thousand years.
-- Tennyson
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...
-- Emma Lazarus, "The New Colossus"
The rain it raineth on the just
And also on the unjust fella,
But chiefly on th
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