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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!
