Poem 165


Emily Dickinson

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!


Go Back