by Emily Dickinson
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!
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