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2 марта 2019 г., 14:21
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!
