Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - third series (1896).djvu/170

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156
POEMS.

XVIII.

THE SPIRIT.

'TIS whiter than an Indian pipe,
'Tis 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;
'Tis drama, if (hypothesis)
It be not tragedy!


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