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 you break faith with us who die,
