Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

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!

1. A Syllable
2. If the Foolish Call Them
3. How Still the Bells in Steeples Stand
4. Unto My Books So Good to Turn
5. As Summer into Autumn Slips

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