(8)

---

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!