A wounded deer leaps highest,

I’ve heard the hunter tell;

’T is but the ecstasy of death,

And then the brake2 is still.

The smitten rock that gushes,

The trampled steel that springs:

A cheek is always redder

Just where the hectic3 stings!

Mirth is the mail of anguish,

In which it caution arm,

Lest anybody spy the blood

And “You’re hurt” exclaim!