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    A wounded deer leaps highest,

    by Emily Dickinson
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    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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