|
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 your 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. |