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, amidst the guns below.
We are the Dead; short days 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 falling hands we throw
The Torch; be yours to hold it high;
If Ye break faith, with those who die,
We shall not sleep—though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
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