‘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 hath the Air?
This limitless Hyperbole
Each one of us shall be —
‘Tis Drama — if Hypothesis
It be not Tragedy —