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.
- John McCrae (1872-1918)
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