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!