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 redderJust where the hectic stings!
Mirth is the mail of anguish,In which it cautions arm,Lest anybody spy the bloodAnd “You’re hurt” exclaim!