In Flanders Fields
by Major John McCrae
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
They 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 sunsets glow,
Loved and were loved, and know 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.
