“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.”

“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.”

“We have no quarrel with the German nation,One would not quarrel with a flock of sheep.But, generation after generation,They throw up leaders who disturb our sleep.”

“And I mean to hear ye groan like that again. And to moan and sob, even though you dinna wish to, for ye canna help it. I mean to make you sigh as though your heart would break, and scream with the wanting, and at last to cry out in my arms, and I shall know that I've served ye well.”

“When all shall fail us, then God will take care of us, and then all will not fail us since we shall have God.”

“Ever hold your hand over a torch (sorry, a flashlight for you Americans).”