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.
We are the dead.
Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow ,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
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.
John Mc Crea
