| 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 the 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. |
|
John McCrae |
|
|
