| In Flander's Fields |
| |
| 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 you break faith with us who die |
| We shall not sleep, though poppies grow |
| In Flanders Fields. |
| |
| John McCrae |
| 1915 |