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 in flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from falling hands we throw. The torch; be yours hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die. We shall not sleep, though poppies grow in flanders fields.-John McCrae