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 failings hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith of us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
On Flanders fields.
by John McCrae (1872 – 1918)