A wounded deer leaps highest, I’ve heard the hunter tell; ‘Tis 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 mail of anguish,
In which its cautious arm
Lest anybody spy the blood
And, “you’re hurt” exclaim