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!

Read another poem