T Is Whiter Than An Indian Pipe, 'T Is 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; 'T Is Drama, If (Hypothesis) It Be Not Tragedy!