dr. john mccrae.

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 brek faith with us who die,
we shall not sleep, though poppies grow,
in flanders fields.