Poemsby Emily Dickinson

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!