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 your quarrel with the foe, To you with 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. John Macrae (1872 - 1918) |
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