THE EASTER OF SWORDS
(April 8, 1917)
Now out of this corruption has been born
This incorruption. Out of this decay,
This passionless, sick serving of the day,
This staleness—from this seed, this rotten corn
Of shame and doubt, has sprung this flowered thorn,
This burgeoned pain, this fire. We that were clay
Have lifted up our eyes,—and lo! the spray
Of bright swords and the challenging high horn!
So Christ is risen, so the wakened soul
Has lifted back the heavy stone and stands
Aflame with morning; what then if it be
Death, not the lily, shining in his hands?
Already, ere the first reveilles roll,
Our death is swallowed up in victory.