“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.”