A Wounded Deer

A wounded deer leaps highest,
I’ve heard the hunter tell;
is but the ecstasy of death,
then the brake is still.

The smitten rock that gushes,
rampled steel that springs;
A cheek is always redder
Just where the hectic stings!

Mirth is the mail of anguish,
In which it cautions arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And “You’re hurt” exclaim!

– Emily Dickinson