by John McCrae, May 1915
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 grow
In Flanders fields.
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
Where dead we lie; while us nearby
the song of larks up in the sky
is scarcely heard as guns bellow.
We, the Dead, yesterday alive,
felt dawn, dreamed of love, saw sunset glow.
Today in Flanders fields
We died.
To thee from failing hands
the torch we throw.
Do hold it high; fight the foe!
If not, we, the Dead,
Will find no rest, though poppies grow
in Flanders fields. (*)
(*) variant by GKC, may 2018
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