A wounded deer leaps highest

A wounded deer leaps highest,

Ive 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 cautions arm,

Lest anybody spy the blood

And Youre hurt exclaim!

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