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 redder

Just where the hectic stings!

Mirth is the mail of anguish,

In which it caution arm,

Lest anybody spy the blood

And “You ’re hurt” exclaim!