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 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