A wounded deer leaps highest

Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)

Poems

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!