In | ||
| 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 | |
| | |
| 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 | |
| | |
| - John McCrae |
Thursday, November 11, 2010
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