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 mail of anguish, In which its cautious arm Lest anybody spy the blood And, "you're hurt" exclaim
Emily Dickinson
