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!
(1860)