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To eyelids in the sepulchre.
How still the dancer lies,
While color's revelations break,
And blaze the butterflies!
'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?

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