XVIII. The Spirit.

'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!