’Tis whiter than an Indian Pipe— ’Tis dimmer than a Lace— No stature has it, like a Fog When you approach the place— Nor any voice imply it here Or intimate it there A spirit—how doth it accost— What function hat the Air? This limitless Hyperbole Each one of us shall be— ’Tis Drama—if Hypothesis It be not Tragedy—
