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VIII. "A wounded deer leaps highest"

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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!

Dickinson: The Complete Works

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