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