In Flanders Fields In Flanders Fields 
by John McCrae, 1914 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.