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.
