The Spirit. By Emily Dickinson

    ‘T is whiter than an Indian pipe,
    ‘T is dimmer than a lace;
    No stature has it, like a fog,
    When you approach the place.

    Not any voice denotes it here,
    Or intimates it there;
    A spirit, how doth it accost?
    What customs hath the air?

    This limitless hyperbole
    Each one of us shall be;
    ‘T is drama, if (hypothesis)
    It be not tragedy!