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.

Note: John McCrae (1872-1918) was a Canadian physician and fought in WWI on the Western Front in 1914; he was transferred to the medical corps and assigned to a hospital in France where he died of pneumonia in 1918. His book of poetry, In Flanders Fields and Other Poems, was published after his death, in 1919.