A wounded Deer- leaps highest-
I’ve heard the Hunter tell-
‘Tis but the extasy 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 cautious Arm,
Lest Anybody spy the blood
And “you’re hurt” exclaim!
Fr 181 Reprinted by permission.
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