Part One: Life
 
            VIII
 
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 caution arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And “You ’re hurt” exclaim!

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