John McCrae

“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?”

“Like restless birds, the breath of coming rainCreeps, lilac-laden, up the village street”

“That day of battle in the dusty heatWe lay and heard the bullets swish and singLike scythes amid the over-ripened wheat,And we the harvest of their garnering.”

“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.”

“In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on rowThat mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns belowWe are the Dead. Short days agoWe lived, felt dawn saw sunset glowLoved and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders fieldsTake up our quarrel with the foe; To you, from falling hands we throwThe torch; be yours to hold it highIf ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields.”

“Take up our quarrel with the foe:To you from failing hands we throwThe torch; be yours to hold it high.If ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields.”