In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark their place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
They are the dead. Short days ago
They lived, felt dawn, saw the sunset's glow,
Loved and were loved, and now they lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you, from failing hands, They all throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If the break faith with them who die
They shall not sleep, because poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
