VIII.
A wounded steer leaps highest,
I’ve heard the hunters tell;
Or maybe it’s a lobster,
If you scratch its shell.
The smitten rock that gushes—
I imagine that’s a thing;
Trampled steel, I’ve heard of—
Supposedly it springs.
Mirth is the mail of anguish
And chains the cats of bridges;
Eggs the sheen of buttons—
I’ve heard it told a smidgen.
—
The deer one.
