“Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me.”

Sigmund Freud

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.

Emily Dickinson