“In Flanders Fields”

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 field

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.

— John McCrae, died 1918

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