In Flanders fields we poppies grow,
That all the passing world may know
We herald peace—surcease of pain,
For those who fought now live again,
Not in cold stone or mortal arts,
But in the depth of loving hearts,
We bloom afresh above our dead,
Our blossoms deck our hero’s bed
In Flanders fields.
Our Father called us into bloom,
To deck and shield each soldier’s tomb
To bask and glint in glory’s stream,
And fashion every soldier’s dream,
As ’neath our roots he sweetly sleeps,
Each poppy true her vigil keeps,
And gently to the breeze she yields
Her soothing breath
In Flanders fields.
* * * * *