Emily Dickinson — A Wounded Deer

165 A Wounded Deer — leaps highest I've heard the Hunter tell 'Tis but the Ecstasy of death And then the Brake is still! The Smitten Rock that gushes! The trampled Steel that springs! A Cheek is always redder Just where the Hectic stings! Mirth is the Mail of Anguish In which it Cautious Arm Lest anybody spy the blood And "you're hurt" exclaim!