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In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae
1872-1918
In Flanders fields the poppies
blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the
sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns
below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset
glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take
up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch;
be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not
sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.