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165 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 the Mail of Anguish In which it Cautious Arm, Lest anybody spy the blood And "you're hurt" exclaim!
Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 25 Mar 2017 3:41 PM | Viewed: 19071 times
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