An American cemetery in France
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.
by John McCrae, 1915