By John McCrae
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 amidst 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 you break faith with us who die
We will not sleep though poppies blow
In Flanders Fields.