Poemsby Emily Dickinson

VIII

 A wounded deer leaps highest, I've heard the hunter tell; 'T is 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 cautions arm, Lest anybody spy the blood And "You're hurt" exclaim!