The deer stood without moving, brutish and graceful as deer
alive in the daylight, except that its heavy, elaborate head was
carrying, upon the usual curvatures of horn, these branches,
this fountain of leaves.

Then it turned and vanished. In shyness, perhaps. Or simply
because we get no more than such dreamy chances to look
upon the real world. The great door opens a crack, a hint of
the truth is given--so bright it is almost a death, a joy we
can't bear--and then it is gone.