In Flanders fields the poppies grow
          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

     In Flanders Fields
       1915

     The Anxious Dead
       1917

     The Warrior
       1907

     Isandlwana
       1910

     The Unconquered Dead
       1906

     The Captain
       1913

     The Song of the Derelict
       1898

     Quebec
       1908

     Then and Now
       1896

    

          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.

          O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
           Above their heads the legions pressing on:
          (These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
           And died not knowing how the day had gone.)

          O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
           The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
          Then let your mighty chorus witness be
           To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.

          Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
           That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
          That we will onward till we win or fall,
           That we will keep the faith for which they died.

          Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
           They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
          Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
           And in content may turn them to their sleep.

          He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,
           But with the night his little lamp-lit room
          Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze
           Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the

               Scarlet coats, and crash o' the band,
                The grey of a pauper's gown,
               A soldier's grave in Zululand,
                And a woman in Brecon Town.
          My little lad for a soldier boy,
           (Mothers o' Brecon Town!)
          My eyes for tears and his for joy
           When he went from Brecon Town,
          His for the flags and the gallant sights
          His for the medals and his for the fights,
          And mine for the dreary, rainy nights
           At home in Brecon Town.

          They say he's laid beneath a tree,
           (Come back to Brecon Town!)
          Shouldn't I know? —  I was there to see:
           (It's far to Brecon Town!)
          It's me that keeps it trim and drest
          With a briar there and a rose by his breast —
          The English flowers he likes the best
           That I bring from Brecon Town.

          And I sit beside him — him and me,
           (We're back to Brecon Town.)
          To talk of the things that used to be
           (Grey ghosts of Brecon Town);
          I know the look o' the land and sky,
          And the bird that builds in the tree near by,
          And times I hear the jackals cry,
           And me in Brecon Town.

               Golden grey on miles of sand
                The dawn comes creeping down;
               It's day in far off Zululand
                And night in Brecon Town.

               ". . . defeated, with great loss."

          Not we the conquered!  Not to us the blame
           Of them that flee, of them that basely yield;
          Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame
           Of them that vanquish in a stricken field.

          That day of battle in the dusty heat
           We lay and heard the bullets swish and sing
          Like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat,
           And we the harvest of their garnering.

          Some yielded, No, not we!  Not we, we swear
           By these our wounds; this trench upon the hill
          Where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare,
           Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still.

          We might have yielded, even we, but death
           Came for

          1797

               Here all the day she swings from tide to tide,
                Here all night long she tugs a rusted chain,
               A masterless hulk that was a ship of pride,
                Yet unashamed:  her memories remain.
          It was Nelson in the 'Captain', Cape St. Vincent far alee,
           With the 'Vanguard' leading s'uth'ard in the haze —
          Little Jervis and the Spaniards and the fight that was to be,
          Twenty-seven Spanish battleships, great bullies of the sea,
           And the 'Captain' there to find her day of days.

          Right into them the 'Vanguard' leads, but with a sudden tack
           The Spaniards double swiftly on their trail;
          Now Jervis overshoots his mark, like some too eager pack,
          He will not overtake them, haste he e'er so greatly back,
           But Nelson and the 'Captain' will not fail.

          Like a tigress on her quarry leaps the 'Captain' from her place,
           To lie across the fleeing squadron's way:
          Heavy odds and heavy onslaught, gun to gun and face to face,
          Win the ship a name of glory, win the men a death of grace,
           For a little hold the Spanish fleet in play.

          Ended now the "Captain"'s battle, stricken sore she falls aside
           Holding still her foemen, beaten to the knee:
          As the 'Vanguard' drifted past her, "Well done, 'Captain'," Jervis cried,
          Rang the cheers of men that conquered, ran the blood of men that died,
           And the ship had won her immortality.

               Lo! here her progeny of steel and steam,
                A funnelled monster at her mooring swings:
               Still, in our hearts, we see her pennant stream,
                And "Well done, 'Captain'," like a trumpet rings.

          Ye have sung me your songs, ye have chanted your rimes
           (I scorn your beguiling, O sea!)
          Ye fondle me now, but to strike me betimes.
           (A treacherous lover, the sea!)
          Once I saw as I lay, half-awash in the night
          A hull in the gloom — a

          1608-1908

          Of old, like Helen, guerdon of the strong —
           Like Helen fair, like Helen light of word, —
          "The spoils unto the conquerors belong.
           Who winneth me must win me by the sword."

          Grown old, like Helen, once the jealous prize
           That strong men battled for in savage hate,
          Can she look forth with unregretful eyes,
           Where sleep Montcalm and Wolfe beside her gate?

          Beneath her window in the fragrant night
           I half forget how truant years have flown
          Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
           Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown
          Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves
           Sweep lazily across the unlit pane,
          And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves,
           Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
          Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
           When all is still, as if the very trees
          Were listening for the coming of her feet
           That come no more; yet, lest I weep, the breeze
          Sings some forgotten song of those old years
          Until my heart grows far too glad for tears.

          Amid my books I lived the hurrying years,
           Disdaining kinship with my fellow man;
          Alike to me were human smiles and tears,
           I cared not whither Earth's great life-stream ran,
          Till as I knelt before my mouldered shrine,
           God made me look into a woman's eyes;
          And I, who thought all earthly wisdom mine,
           Knew in a moment that the eternal skies
          Were measured but in inches, to the quest
           That lay before me in that mystic gaze.
          "Surely I have been errant:  it is

          "Delicta juventutis et ignorantius ejus,
                  quoesumus ne memineris, Domine."

          I left, to earth, a little maiden fair,
           With locks of gold, and eyes that shamed the light;
          I prayed that God might have her in His care
                      And sight.

          Earth's love was false; her voice, a siren's song;
           (Sweet mother-earth was but a lying name)
          The path she showed was but the path of wrong
                      And shame.

          "Cast her not out!" I cry.  God's kind words come —
           "Her future is with Me, as was her past;
          It shall be My good will to bring her home
                      At last."

          My lover died a century ago,
          Her dear heart stricken by my sland'rous breath,
          Wherefore the Gods forbade that I should know
                      The peace of death.

          Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep,
          Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!"
          How should they know the vigils that I keep,
                      The tears I shed?

          Upon the grave, I count with lifeless breath,
          Each night, each year, the flowers that bloom and die,
          Deeming the leaves, that fall to dreamless death,
                      More blest than I.

          'Twas just last year — I heard two lovers pass
          So near, I caught the tender words he said:
          To-night the rain-drenched breezes sway the grass
                      Above his head.

          That night full envious of his life was I,
          That youth and love should stand at his behest;
          To-night, I envy him, that he should lie
                      At utter rest.

            I

          Sleep, little eyes
          That brim with childish tears amid thy play,
          Be comforted!  No grief of night can weigh
          Against the joys that throng thy coming day.

          Sleep, little heart!
          There is no place in Slumberland for tears:
          Life soon enough will bring its chilling fears
          And sorrows that will dim the after years.
          Sleep, little heart!

            II

          Ah, little eyes
          Dead blossoms of a springtime long ago,
          That life's storm crushed and left to lie below
          The benediction of the falling

               "It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers.
               And he said unto his father, My head, my head.  And he said to a lad,
               Carry him to his mother.  And . . . he sat on her knees till noon,
               and then died.  And she went up, and laid him on the bed. . . .
               And shut the door upon him and went out."

          Immortal story that no mother's heart
           Ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting pain
          That rent her soul!  Immortal not by art
           Which makes a long past sorrow sting again

          Like grief of yesterday:  but since it said
           In simplest word the truth which all may see,
          Where any mother sobs above her dead
           And plays anew the silent tragedy.