“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!”
So the issue is that of scale, then?
And the right of exit is conditional on there being somewhere to go. Finding such a place can sometimes be difficult.
It worked out pretty well for the US.
It worked out pretty well for the US, but a distressingly high proportion of Americans don’t seem to know that.