In Flanders Field the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row and row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely signing, 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 Field.
Take up your quarrel with the foe!
To you, from falling hands, we throw
     The torch. Be yours to lift it high!
If ye breaks faith with us who die.
We shall not sleep, though poppies blow
In Flanders Fields.