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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

Asleep
The Monument

The Spirit

'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!

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