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 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.