In Flanders Fields

by
John McCrae
1872-1918

The Poppy.

In Flanders Fields the poppies grow
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 the quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch, be yours to hold it high.
If ye break the faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

"Goodnight DAD"

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