IN FLANDERS FIELDS.

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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 blow
In Flanders fields.

--John McCrae