IN FLANDERS FIELDS

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.

POPPIES GROW AGAIN IN FLANDERS

In Flanders Fields again they grow,

Between the crosses row on row.

The brilliant hue of poppies red,

Mark new-filled graves of brave men, dead!

The larks still bravely singing, fly,

'Tho death rides master of the sky.

And in the fading evening light,

Stand crosses new, unweathered, white!

And added are the thousands more,

The crosses on some distant shore;

In jungles dense, in northern lands,

On mountain heights, on desert sand,

Each points its finger to the sky,

Accusing men, both you and

Accusing that we soon forgot

The freedoms they so dearly bought!

What will ye then,

Ye foolish men,

Forget so soon the lesson taught?

Nay, gird thy loin for greater work,

That greater task no man may shirk;

Pick up the torch and dedicate

Thy will to peace not born in hate!