A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest


A wounded deer leaps highest,
I've heard the hunter tell;
'Tis 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 mail of anguish,
In which its cautious arm
Lest anybody spy the blood
And, "you're hurt" exclaim


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Return to the Emily Dickinson Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; Because I Could Not Stop for Death

It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.