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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.