Poemsby 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!