John McCrae
In Flanders fields the
poppies blow
Between the crosses, row
on row,
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.
—1915