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 rest, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields
- J. McCrae, MD, May 3, 1915
