< Page:Emily Dickinson Poems (1890).djvu
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VIII.
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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 cautions arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And "You're hurt" exclaim !
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