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by EmilyDickinson
Asleep
The Monument

The Spirit

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!